Our Love is Art
by Mackenzie L
Summary: Through the union of two souls, the expression of love becomes an art in itself. A profound exploration of intimacy through the eyes of a painter and a poet, told in many colors. HR Award Winner — Best Citrusy Sequence.
1. Prologue

**Our Love is Art**

**By Mackenzie L.**

_Welcome, readers. This story is a poetic account of Esme and Carlisle's relationship as soul mates, studying the growth of their love over time, and how their personal experiences shape that love, creating art from intimacy. Each chapter will be a one-shot inspired by a different color. The point of view will alternate from chapter to chapter between Carlisle and Esme._

_This story has been rated M for mature sexual content._

_*****__The Twilight Saga and its characters are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. _

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**Prologue**

_~Carlisle_

As a man prone to pointless pondering, I often find myself revisiting the melancholy days when love was still a mystery to me. My knowledge of love, sad though it may seem, came not from shared embraces or words of kindness. From the birth of my second life, everything I knew of love came from literature, from Scripture, from dry parchment and blotted ink.

There was a time when I regarded love in its several stricter forms: _Agápē_ – sacrificial love, a love shared in fellowship; _Philia_ _– _familial love, a love shared in virtue;_ Storge_ – begrudging love, a love shared in affection.

Yet there remained outside this fine circle of safety, a form of love I had persistently, and perhaps somewhat bitterly, refused to acknowledge. _Eros _– erotic love, a loved shared in passion.

To own and control such a love – the love reserved for a husband and his wife – was all too unthinkable in my eyes. I had accepted my curse with heavy arms, but the weight of that burden had become comfortable. There was a beauty to my loneliness, I must confess, and I owe my passion for spirituality, my faith in an all-seeing, all-protecting power to these ages I spent alone.

It does not shame me to admit that loneliness shaped the man I am today. Without these empty years of solitude, I would not exist as I do. These words: "_I am"_ – such a delicate pair – they mean everything to a man.

I am a believer. I am a doctor. I am a father. I am a husband.

But with a simple injection of passion, _I am _a soul. _I am _a healer. _I am _a shepherd. _I am _a lover.

Many men would claim that they would be nothing without their families or their wives. However, this is not a claim I am foolish enough to make. For as much as I value such sentimentality, my faith forbids from believing the soul can be purged from its owner. No man, whether he is alone or surrounded by thousands of beating or un-beating hearts, is ever _nothing. _

I would _not _be nothing without my family. But I would be _less_ than what I am without them.

The fulfillment I have found in my life thus far cannot be reversed. If I were to leave the earth this night, I would perish in flames of utter contentment. If I were to lose a loved one, I would lose a piece of my heart, but that piece would grow back in time. It would be weaker, perhaps, but it would mend itself faithfully.

For so many years, I could have never imagined my heart to be capable of such profound love and such enticing strength. Years were only numbers on pages. These pages I saw, burning in fire as time caressed me coldly.

Under my frozen flesh, I felt a fire of my own. In my neglect, I let this fire burn uncontrollably. Its flames were volatile, unpredictable. My heart was burning for something greater, for something I could have and call my own; for something that would have _me_ and call _me _its own. Yet for centuries this burning went unspoken. I refused to acknowledge my loneliness in favor of accepting solitude with a silent strength. In the face of that strength, though, I was weeping inside.

I sometimes wonder how I lived without her, without Esme. It seems preposterous that my world had been real before we'd met. To think each step I took in that world had purpose, had weight, and made an impression in the ground when I walked without her. I can scarcely believe I left footprints in the dust back then. I was but a mere ghost of a man before I found her.

Colors had once been dull, gray, watered-down – like streaks of ash smeared over a cold canvas of concrete. I could only dream of colors, but I never saw them. Then, on the night I stole Esme from her wistful death, my fire was fueled with a new hope. My world was rippling with new possibilities; my heart was beating once again. She was everything I had never dreamed of having, and everything my heart so desperately needed.

If there is one thing for which I will never forgive myself, it is that I was blind to these needs for far too long.

Esme, however, has forgiven me. Countless times.

In her merciful grace, Esme showed me all the colors I had missed before. She showed me colors that I never noticed, colors that were pure enough to bring tears to my eyes, colors that were bright enough to break my heart, colors that defied science and gravity and senses; colors I did not know even existed.

She held out her hand to me, and with her fragile fingers she was as sure and strong a guide as I could ask for. Esme was my guiding light in a cave of endless black. She was a bonfire in the dark forest of my doubts. She was – she _is _– the very thesis of eternity.

My mind will sometimes wander back to those times when the female was a mysterious vessel, clothed in secrecy, veiled in a man's sheer fear to sin. To wonder how I would behave when faced with a woman in the most intimate of contexts made my heart tremble with a wanting I refused to permit. Just wondering about such things was dangerous. I had trapped myself out of fear for the unknown. It would take courage to love a woman. The duty itself was deliciously daunting as I imagined it, and the more it pressed around in my mind, the more I _needed _to have it. I needed to embark on this unmentionable test, this unexplored realm of loving a woman.

To this very day, I have never found an adequate means to thank my wife for granting me the chance I'd feared I would never have.

Esme challenged my masculinity in the most unspeakable ways. Her every whisper, expression, and movement forced me to see just how capable I was of offering a love greater than my imagination had ever fathomed. The mere idea that I alone could explore the mystery Esme offered me with her mind, heart, body, soul, and spirit was intoxicating.

When the fire inside my heart grew too hot to bear, I stole Esme from the clutches of solitude, and she returned the noble favor with passion flowing, rampant and reckless. I was enthralled by what my love had unlocked within her – this woman with so vast a heart, so fierce a soul. She was a fire herself, the flames of her spirit wrapping around me, protecting _my _spirit, searing my flesh and scorching my soul. I wanted to drown in her, and drown in her I did. Never again would I return to the surface.

Our love has not dwindled over the years. It has only grown stronger, more impenetrable by the day. Our love is harder than diamonds, but loftier than the clouds. Our love is as constant as the light of the sun, but as changing as the feathered ends of the universe.

We ask for nothing of each other but this very love. It is all we have needed, and all we will ever need. As the times undulate with great forces and pressures around us, we remain the same. There is a humbling beauty in this curse that I would never have grown to appreciate if not for my wife. My Esme.

Constant she may be, but my wife is multi-faceted. Each facet is more hypnotic, more fascinating, more perplexing than the last. I may spend hours and days and weeks and years turning her over and over in my curious hands, but I will never completely solve the puzzle of her soul. She is deceptive from the outside – an innocence of facade, a gentle countenance – careworn and humble are her eyes. She is pure, and always will be. I alone have her permission to delve past these lovely layers she shows the rest of the world. She will part the curtains for me, and only me.

I am confounded in her presence, yet I know her so well that it frightens me. She knows me, I believe, far better than I have ever known myself; perhaps even better than I know _her_. But these variables are impossible to mark. It is perfect this way. I am satisfied with the undefined, because the search itself is where the thrill resides. With an eternity to discover more yet in this endless harmony, I have nothing left to long for. Only more of _her_.

The miracle we have encountered in our union with one another comes not from any sacrament. Matrimony only gives us permission to commit to this union, in the form of two golden rings sealed around our fingers. Our miracle is strictly _ours_, so unique it cannot be replicated by any other means than our bodies, our hearts, our souls.

Our medium of choice is always changing. Our hands are feverish. Our canvas grows more colorful by the day. Together, we have committed ourselves to this eternal journey – this never-ending expression of love without boundaries, without limitations, without restrictions. Together, we find inspiration in each other; together, we are unafraid to share our deepest passions. We are artists. We are masters of the art we practice, but with every waking moment we are perfecting it past the very point of perfection.

Our love is our art.

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_**A/N**__: _ _I welcome any readers who are also reading Stained Glass Soul, and recommend to any new readers that you take a look at it if you are interested in reading my version of how Carlisle and Esme first fell in love. _

_Please consider leaving a review if you are reading to let me know what you think. :)_


	2. White

_Welcome back, readers. This first chapter will be told from Esme's point of view. The first part of this chapter is a flashback to the morning after her wedding night. In the second part, she offers a revealing look into how her and Carlisle's first meeting as a doctor and a patient influences their roles as lovers over the years. As Carlisle tells the story of the night they first met, Esme's human memories are awakened and revisited. If you would like more background on this particular event, I suggest reading the second chapter of my story Stained Glass Soul, where you will find a brief account of the night Carlisle treated Esme's broken leg. _

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**Inspired by White**

**Medium: Purity on Silk Sheets**

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_July 1922_

~_Esme _

_All I knew when I looked at him was that I needed to be with him for the rest of eternity. Because he held my universe in place he was the center of every vortex, the focus of every natural force. I had no control over my feelings for this man, so I let the feelings drag me onward, reveling in my submission because I knew there was no rising above its power. _

When I woke from the dream that was my husband's love for me, he was still there, his limbs strong and smooth all around me. We were wrapped in the downy embrace of warm bed sheets, confined by the untouchable depths of our closeness.

His eyes were revealing in a way I had not anticipated they would be. If I had, I regret to fear, I may have run away from the night when it crept upon us. What Carlisle had showed me was unspeakably dark but deathly pure, like black sand under a crystal clear sea. I never wanted to lose what he had so trustingly unveiled before me, hour after hour, his gaze open and maddening, his instincts raw and untamed. Something inside of him had been unleashed, deemed at last free to race recklessly through the waves of wild blue silk upon our bed.

He offered me his every secret, a side of him he had never revealed to any soul before me. This side, he claimed, was mine to witness, and mine only. And now it almost hurt to think back on how I had envisioned Carlisle making love to me. My fantasies had been downright bashful in the realm of detail, and hopelessly naïve.

What we were doing now had not matched the fabrications of my imagination. This was explicitly more passionate, and seemingly endless in its domination over our bodies. Though it fazed me to admit it, I had not expected Carlisle to be so forthright in the way he had touched me, kissed me, and handled me. His nature played to that of a shy, reserved individual, and I had suspected he would adhere to his character even in the confines of the bedroom. But Lord have mercy on him, he had proven to be almost entirely the opposite. It was seductively fascinating on so many levels.

He was restless in some sense, but he held fast to his patience as his cornerstone, and that kept us from crossing that line of unfeeling animalism. The dangerous fervor of a vampire was still there, and this, I supposed, was what had triggered the time-bomb of his swelling heart; what had made him so irresponsibly passionate.

The swift arrival of daybreak did not discourage him.

Under his silent proposition, we continued chasing the morning, feeding from the force of our fervor. The hours melted into each other, the glass of the windows first glowing blue, and we were underwater. The blue grew rich as the clouds yawned into violet. And, sooner than we had hoped, violet had blossomed in a familiar frost of timid pink on the glass behind the curtains.

I did not want the light to stop me from loving him. The sun should rise, the curtains should continue to coddle our windows, the carpets should continue to beg for the missing pressure of our bare feet. If we wanted, we could prolong the night far into the morning. And we did.

How many times had he told me he loved me? I hadn't bothered to count. He'd whispered it every so often, when all other words failed him; when good sense overwhelmed him. He'd soon grown weary of strained speech. It seemed only to disrupt the fierce, almost artistic craft of his every stroke. He settled instead to murmur just the word itself.

_"Love."_

He whispered it over and over, at times like a solemn prayer, a sigh of relief, a trembling incantation. Whether it was an address or an exclamation, I never knew. I had only soft and subtle context to deduce from. If he pressed his lips to my shoulder and spoke into my skin, I supposed it was an afterthought. If he touched the tip of his tongue to the rim of my ear as he murmured it, I wondered if he was sharing a secret with me.

He was tasting the word, I suppose. Truly understanding it for the first time here in my arms. I may have whispered it back to him once or twice. Somehow, I cannot recall.

The word was marvelous, shaped tenderly by his gentle tongue, flushed sweet by his breath. My pleasure mounted every time he dared to utter it, until he let me break. He held my hand as he watched me shatter, and when I'd somehow found the strength to breathe again, he trailed his fingers across my face, staring down into my eyes, still offering me more than I'd ever dared to want. The intimacy of what we were doing did not wisp away with the coming of morning. It only seemed to intensify, and I was quickly approaching the edge of what I thought I could bear.

And still, a thrashing heat arose deep inside me, assaulting me with a thrumming pleasure that just refused to leave me alone. I could not look up at my husband without the stubborn sensation growing even more wild. My desires were awakened again and again, every time I looked up and saw his handsome face, hovering above me in the glitter of morning sunrays.

"I think I may die," I whimpered softly, my hands falling from his shoulders, like weak white butterflies over his arms.

Carlisle's brow furrowed, though a small smile remained on his lips – an expression of perfect, sympathetic distress.

"Please don't," he whispered, tilting his head slightly so the light of early morning glistened in his eyes. "I would be heartbroken."

His words roused a flutter in my belly, and I smiled crookedly – the effect of trying not to smile, but failing miserably.

"You would…?" I murmured absently, curling my fingers appreciatively around his arms.

His head inclined subtly, secretive eyes swiftly dropping to my still heaving chest, then rising back to my face in an instant. My throat tightened as he caught my gaze again, and his smile softened, growing more serious. I was slightly winded by the seraphic beauty of his face above me as the sun burst intrusively through our bedroom windows. My eyes slowly closed, unable to bear the oppressive brightness of it all.

There was so much still to think about, so much to understand on so many new levels. With accordance to the common language, Carlisle had just _defiled_ me – multiple times at that. And yet, it felt as though he had only purified me. He did not bear the face of one who defiled women, that was certain. I did not _feel_ defiled, though with a past as gruesome as mine, I perhaps should have… But I could not.

This was not a defilement of our bodies. This was pure. Now, with Carlisle, it was _holy._ Such an exhilarating thought this was.

In his delightfully gentle voice, he whispered above me, "Are you dying?"

The velvety tips of his fingers traced a graceful, encouraging path along my jaw. Slowly, my eyes opened to the gauzy silhouette of my beloved, swathed in the sun's mellow glow. It took my gaze a moment to adjust, to see that he was smiling illusively, just at the corners. His cheek was sparkling shyly in the light, and I reached up to touch it.

"I think I am," I replied brokenly, the words taking everything out of me in one breath.

His eyes saddened exquisitely as he leaned down, resting his cheek against mine. "Don't leave me..." he murmured in a playfully pleading tone, situating his soft lips around the scars on my throat. My voice caught between a giggle and a sigh when his tongue gently laved over the markings. Though the pain of my transformation had long since healed, his venom still seemed to soothe something when he kissed me there.

"I'm not leaving you, Carlisle," I whispered, low but reassuring. My fingers curved tenderly around his ear. "I'll never leave you."

We were joined for the third time since the evening had fallen. The sun gently encouraged us with its heated gaze, its rays spilling with more vigor through the curtains as the morning ripened. It was not until the sun reached the highest point in the sky when we finally parted.

I felt like I was moving in a warm dream. In a way, I was almost lost, but when my husband caught my eye, he sent me all the direction I needed.

I rose from our bed and tried to dress myself, as if it were like any other morning. As if this was over.

Carlisle took my waist between his hands and asked me what I could possibly need in my armoire.

I never had the chance to answer.

We bathed together, and made love in the water. It was so strange, so beautifully different from the sheets. It was magical.

Somehow we managed to blend our dream into the real world. Somehow, I was walking again. Not swimming or floating or drifting. I was in control of my movements, unattached to the clinging weight of another. It felt unnatural at first, a most surprising adjustment.

Pale silk slipped over my shoulders, carpets caressed the soles of my damp feet. I seated myself gingerly before my vanity mirror and slowly began to brush the mild tangles from my hair. As I ran the hairbrush through my tresses, I studied my reflection in a new and somewhat astounding light. This face – my face – was now the face of Carlisle's lover.

The harshness of this realization did not fade with the dawning of a new day. It was as invigorating as ever, even more so in the light of day. I would never look at myself in the same way now, let alone Carlisle. The hairbrush paused at my shoulder as I gazed at my reflection, at the breathtaking beauty that his venom had infused into my previously homely appearance.

The door to the bathroom swung open silently, and an Adonis clasping a white towel around his waist walked into the bedroom. My breath caught in my throat as I saw him gather up his clothing through the mirror and sit himself on the edge of the bed. His hair was deep gold, damp and slightly tousled from behind. All I wanted was to touch him.

I continued to absently brush my utterly smooth curls as I watched him pull his trousers over his legs, then stand up to slide the belt around his waist. He left the belt unclasped until he had shrugged the shirt over his shoulders, tucking it into the waistband first, then buttoning it from the bottom up to the collar.

It was such a curious thing, watching Carlisle dress himself. He did it so gracefully, so casually – like he thought nothing of how he was hiding such a precious work of art beneath thick layers of fabric, then locking it all together with the modest belt and tie. The finished product was Doctor Cullen as I had always known him; as everyone else knew him. But now I knew him so much better.

He walked to the window, pushing the curtains aside so he could inspect the state of the sky. I rose from my place at the vanity to fix the bed while he was distracted. He pulled the last article of clothing over his head – a conservative, argyle gray sweater vest – transforming his body from the heavenly nude angel to the refined and proper physician. Just before he turned around to face me, I noticed the state of his bare feet and smiled.

He saw my smile before I could straighten my face. He smiled back at me, and it was like a second, much better sunrise.

"What is so amusing, my dear?" he inquired softly while adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.

"Your feet," I answered simply, knowing my response was not at all what he had expected. I giggled as he pursed his lips forward in an adorable look of confusion, staring down at his bare feet.

"You didn't find them quite so funny before," he mentioned teasingly as he stepped forward to the opposite side of the bed.

I bit my lip to cover a wry smile and looked down where my hands had paused on the edge of the sheet. "I suppose I was too distracted."

Instinctively, I dared myself to look up at him. His head was cocked to the side as he gazed at me curiously, a blatantly flirtatious glint in his citrine eyes. He blinked once and the spell was broken. I watched him smile tightly as he stared down at the disheveled state of the bed. Quickly, I remembered my intention to fix it, and rushed back into action.

Not a moment after I had tugged the sheet from under the mattress, I felt it being pulled upward from the other side as well.

"Let me help you."

It was in my nature to refuse help in any chore, though I knew Carlisle would not expect me to do anything on my own if I didn't have to.

"I've got it."

As I'd predicted, he ignored my assurance – or rather, dismissed it. I drew my eyes down to the task at hand, instead of looking at him. It still surprised me that after everything we had done last night, I could still feel shy around him in a conventional setting. Then again, perhaps it was not so conventional. After all, we were fixing the very bed that we had both disrupted through mutual effort…

He took both corners of the sheet on the opposite side and lifted them, mirroring my motions, and we let the fabric float down into place. I caught his eye briefly after the second sheet partially obstructed my view, and finding his steadfast gaze still locked to my face, I suffered through another imaginary blush.

He noticed my slight discomfort, and promptly saved me from the awkward silence. "I can't remember the last time I did this," he chuckled as he swiftly pressed the sheets flat with his knuckles.

A small smile crossed my lips. "You wouldn't have needed to, would you?"

He tilted his head in consideration. "How long has it been since you've made this bed?"

"A few weeks," I confessed, wondering if he would further question as to _why _I would spend time fixing a bed that I presumably never slept in.

He didn't, because he knew better than that.

"Hm. You're quite good," he complimented.

I smiled more fully as he ran his hand over the second layer of covers, smoothing out the wrinkles. "So are you."

He laughed softly.

We eased into silence again, with only the rustling of the sheets to complement our breathing. But it was not very much an awkward silence this time. It was almost content.

Almost.

"Can you hand me the corner of that comforter over there?" he asked innocently, hand outstretched for the blue blanket. My hand hesitantly clutched the corner of the thick cover and placed it in his open palm. Only after he had taken it did I recognize the five finger marks he had unconsciously clawed into the bedspread the night before.

He neatly stretched it out, apparently oblivious to the torn corner of fabric.

Before I could breathe in relief, I noticed his narrowed eyes, scrutinizing a spot by the foot of the bed.

"Did I...do that?" he murmured in a delicate voice, more to himself than to me as he bent closer to inspect the shredded blanket.

My fingers twisted together as I stood back silently, hoping to convey relative ambivalence toward the accident. He quickly looked back to my face for some form of acknowledgment, and I immediately straightened and opened my mouth to speak. But at the last second I decided against it, simply settling with a bashful smirk.

He stared at me for a moment before he looked back at the marks with a succinct sigh, sounding partly amused, partly embarrassed.

"Well, we can always buy new sheets, can't we?" He reasoned softly, returning to help me with the last layer.

It fascinated me how strangely devoted he seemed to be to this most mundane of daily chores. Then I remembered that my husband had not used a bed in what was most likely over two centuries at the least. His childlike excitement over helping to make our bed was incredibly endearing.

"The covers don't have to be perfect," I told Carlisle quietly. He stopped obsessively tugging at the top blanket, and he looked up at me in curiosity. At the moment I felt we were both thinking the same thing. _It likely wouldn't be long before they were tossed about again. _

He seemed to catch my meaning, and whispered cryptically, "No, I suppose they don't."

"No one comes in here except for us," I added lightly.

"No... they don't." He shook his head softly as he whispered the words, and there was something so stabbingly intimate in the way he said it.

His hand left the bed and dropped to his side as he watched me swiftly arrange the pillows. I sensed his eyes on me and lifted my head to look at him quizzically, to which he grinned quite impishly. My stomach fluttered at the flickering dimple in his right cheek, my breath growing heavy as he circled the end of the bed to walk up behind me.

"Your loveliness fascinates me, Esme," he murmured huskily into my ear. I tilted my head to the side to accommodate an anticipated kiss and was rewarded with the warm caress of his tongue on my neck.

I turned my head to face him in gentle urgency and guided his mouth to mine, standing on my tiptoes to reach him properly.

Carlisle's hands snaked around my belly as we kissed thirstily, and every bone in my body seemed to melt, knowing he could take me again right here, right now. And I discovered with even more shock that I _wanted_ him again – right here, right now.

"Can you believe we're truly together, my love?" he asked me, sounding so confounded at the prospect. I shook my head in equal wonder. "Can you believe this is real?"

His hands were open as he touched me, and my knees grew weak.

"How did we finally find each other?" I whispered in amazement.

But I knew the answer.

He answered me anyway.

That was the first time he told me our story.

**-}0{-**

The night I first met my husband, a night that had once felt so distant to me, was now as familiar as the back of my hand. Over our years together, Carlisle had shared with me every detail as he remembered it. Each time I asked him to tell me the story, he did, and each time he told it, the details grew finer, and my memories grew clearer. The smoky haze lifted from my mind, and there I found us – a doctor and his patient whispering in a dark sitting room while a summer storm raged just outside, on a small farm in Ohio. I was drenched in rain, and he was drenched in gold.

He will sometimes tell me what he remembers, his account far more sensual for my ears alone than if he were asked to recite the tale before an audience. Even in the presence of our children, he would never tell the story quite the same way he told it to me when we were locked together in an empty house, alone.

I would not want him to tell the story this way to anyone else. This version of our first meeting is a private one, and one Carlisle often shares with me, whether I have requested it of him or not.

I can see it in his eyes when he tells the story – revisiting this night brings him a strength, a reassurance of his destiny. My husband is a very spiritual man who believes all things are the will of a higher power. The so-seeming serendipity of our first meeting, I think, adds a new dimension to his faith. As a result of our fateful encounter, he no longer dismisses the moments that might seem insignificant at first glance.

For my husband, telling our story is a comfort – a confirmation – as precious for him as it is for me. And as such, the chance to hear him tell it is one I have never and will never pass by.

What brings about this sudden whim for storytelling is rather serendipitous in itself. As far as I am aware as a woman, from the moment my husband catches a glimpse of my right leg – bare from the foot to the knee – his eyes will start to sparkle in a most familiar manner. I know from this moment that something will be said of the incident that brought us together. As I turn my face away, perhaps, he will mention something in a light voice. And whatever he mentions, no matter how vague, will bring the request from my lips.

"Tell me about how we met."

To any other couple this question would sound very strange. Partners who are joined for life, almost as a rule, will recall quite vividly the day they first set eyes upon each other. However, _I_, due to most unnatural circumstances, do not remember this meeting so clearly.

Pieces are there, sometimes swimming into the forefront of my mind from a place deep within me. I have no control over memories from my humanity, no way to capture and watch those fragmented frames like a film under closed eyes. Only Carlisle holds the key to unlocking my memories.

The sparkle in his eyes will flourish as I ask him to repeat the familiar tale. Like a young child with her favorite story, I find a profound comfort in hearing it told over and over, though it is often reserved for these fleeting moments between the years. Carlisle has never turned away this request when I've asked it of him. Occasionally, he will hide a dimpled smile of mischief and ask for something in return. But as his requested 'favors' are consistently reasonable, I am always willing to acquiesce, and he is always willing to retell the story.

And, if we are alone, he will tell it the way I most desire to have it told.

_"You grew up, as I recall, on a vast plantation in the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. The day our paths first crossed began like any other summer day. The air was humid, and the sun threatened to expose me for what I truly was. While your cheeks would burn like bright roses under its golden rays, mine would glisten like snow. _

_While you were watching the storm brew overhead from your tree, I had been watching it from my second floor window of St. Francis Hospital. While you sought adventure, I sought safety. While you were savoring your youth, I was savoring my solitude._

_I remember the delay of the telephone, the shudder of electrics failing. Out of the physicians on duty that evening, I was of the few deemed able-bodied enough to visit patients who had no means of reaching the hospital for treatment. _

_The home of Thomas Platt was the first on a hastily scrawled list I had been handed. The ink was smeared in the rain as I stepped outside, but it was no matter. I tucked the note into my pocket, having memorized the names. Your father was quite popular in the rural world. Even an outcast such as I had been familiar with his name. Ample transportation was to my disposal, but I chose to leave on foot to reach the patient who needed me. This was against the rules, Esme._

_I broke the rules to reach you."_

His voice grew softer, always, when he recalled what had happened as he approached my home.

_"The storm was ruthless, but I was valiant. Naturally, I was able to reach your house with far more ease than a drawn carriage would have... but this remains our secret. _

_The first thing I saw was your housekeeper, Bethany, running up the muddy road with her apron in her hands, and a face flush with urgency. _

'_Old Man Platt's silly daughter was climbing a tree,' she called to me, her voice frantic. As I approached her, she lost coherence for a brief while. I suspect she was simply expecting a doctor of familiar face. But this did little to affect me. I was quite accustomed to being regarded as a stranger._

_She chattered on about how foolish you were, Esme. I was amused. Already, my dear, I was in defense of my defenseless patient. Already, I knew that I would have no choice but to take a liking to you, and a fierce one at that. _

_I came into your house, and I was intoxicated by the feeling of being home_. _I don't recall ever feeling that way in my visits to any other patients before you. It was as if time and space had ceased to exist. My world was, for that moment, confined to a warm, dry entryway with checkerboard tile and mismatched purple wallpaper. (Your home must have been decorated by artistic thieves, my dear. Your parents would have been wise to assign their daughter to such a task.)_

_Miss Bethany continued to smother my ears with talk of your restless antics. She rushed me into the sitting room where she said you had been waiting for nearly two hours._

_She did not tell me you were sixteen years of age."_

"Poor child."

These were the first two words I had heard flee from my husband's tender lips. I would never forget the sound of them as they bathed my ears and soothed my worries.

He had expected his patient to be a child… but a child I suppose I was, even then. I was hardly yet a woman, but I believe this ironic evening had prepared me for womanhood in a most profound way. Meeting Doctor Cullen had reminded me that my lovely bridge between _child_ and _woman_ was dangerously near to crumbling...

He tested its architectural soundness the moment he looked down at me.

_"Our eyes met, then _–_ very briefly, Esme. Would you ever think, in that moment, that we would be together one day as we are now?"_

No, I told him. I would not.

_"You were so innocent, lying there, with your bare feet resting on the mismatched cushions, showing off the crooked twist of your lovely right leg. Your dress had been torn, and your eyes were glistening with tears. I knew you had been crying as I soon caught the faint perfume of sad salt on the air. I all but cringed with pity for you. _

_Your scent was potent to me, my darling. Sweet like blossoms, yet simple like pumpkin. Honey and home and last-second whims. I realized then that _you _were the source of my intoxication. _

_I was well-practiced in masking this struggle, and I was lucky, for I fear your observant gaze would have spotted my strain with or without an oil lamp by your side._

_I looked at you, thoroughly for the first time, and a most delicate gasp came from your lips. I smiled inside, terribly, knowing well my effect on your innocent heart. _

_Your eyes were like the sunshine-mottled days of autumn. My dear, surely the Barbizon school would have paid handsomely to study your gaze. Rousseau_ _himself would find, in your eyes, inspiration for a masterpiece of epic beauty."_

And here is where I would interrupt his story to refute his lofty compliments, and insist that _his_ eyes were inspired by the heavens. He would, of course, ignore me, smiling a most secretive smile as he stole a kiss before continuing.

_"I asked you how you had acquired this peculiar injury. (Yes, I knew very well the story of your tree climbing, but can you possibly blame me for wanting to hear the account firsthand from your intriguing young face?)_

_You stuttered your reply, my darling. How sweet your stumbling was; how telltale the tripping of your tongue. I believe you had caught my smile at that moment. I averted my eyes from your quivering lips, and I chastised my ears for taking delight in your struggling pulse."_

I still felt a blush when he mentioned these memories. His effect on me had not worn since the first day I laid eyes on him, and Carlisle was well aware of this. He used it, sometimes shamelessly, to his advantage. But I used it to my own as well.

I told him how I had found the unreal beauty of his face inspiring. How frustrated I had been in my crippled state which kept me from scooping up my paintbrushes and stretching out a new canvas. I had wanted to paint _him_ like I had never wanted to paint anything before. I had wanted to recreate his beauty, his kindness, his very _essence _in colors more intense and strokes more bold than would have been proper for paintings of the time.

Doctor Cullen was the muse for my art for years after that. But as a young woman, my struggle with art was kept secret lest I be shamed for entertaining my imagination in such impractical ways. Needless to say, I had never succeeded in capturing the essence of my childhood doctor in paint. The mundane mixture of oil and pigment was an inadequate binding for perfection. No matter how I had tried, I could not do his face the justice it deserved.

This had led to perhaps the deepest stage of _melancholia _I had suffered through as a budding artist.

When I confessed this to my husband, he apologized not with a stream of heedless kisses, but with a long, centered stare of richest understanding. He _knew _my art was something I suffered for. He supported my passions with every fiber of himself, just as I supported his. This connection between us was what kept us above the surface. This perfect pattern of give and receive was what allowed our love to thrive.

We never imagined it would reach such heights from the beginning.

It was almost impossible to believe the diligent doctor and his demure young patient were still buried deep within us on this day. We'd come so far together, but we never forgot where we had come _from. _This was the importance of reliving the story of those beginnings.

Carlisle's gentle voice grew eager as he reminded me of our very first touch.

_"You were watching my hands as I moved about. I noticed this, darling. I was rushing to finally touch you. I sensed you were longing for it, though I was perhaps blind to the true reasons why... _

_I asked your permission to find where you were broken. (Oh, how long it took me to find the _true _part of you that was broken, my love. Forgive me for not finding it that very night.) _

_You granted me permission with a single nod of your head _–_ this gesture, no matter how simple, made my heart leap. I thought it wrong to savor this touch, but I did, Esme. I savored it anyway. _

_Your skin was soft, my love. The way your body gave beneath my hard, cold fingers was alarmingly wondrous. I was terrified of breaking you further, and my every move was frustratingly precise though I longed to be free with my touch. My fingers were tempted by the fine pink youth of your fragile flesh, the gentle tide of your veins beneath it, and your warmth... Oh, how warm you were."_

I was filled with fever as he spoke of this touch. He would sense the tremulous pressure of my passion, and he would fuel it further with the feathery caress of his fingers over my ankle as he spoke.

"_I prolonged my touch far past what was proper, asking you if it hurt here or there, then maybe here... I wished to spare no part of your skin the chill of my curious fingers. You were shivering from my touch, but I could not stop myself. Then you flinched. _

_You were in pain already, and I knew the pain you would soon receive from the force of my hands would be far worse. I dreaded the moment I would have to set your leg properly, yet I knew it wise, as a doctor, to set it quickly._

_You cried, my love. Oh, how I ached as I watched the tears sparkle down your freckled cheeks. Can you imagine my pain in longing to fix you further when I had already done all that I could? I held your shoulder in the only gesture of comfort I was brave enough to offer. Forgive me as ever for not offering more... _

_You cried freely before me, and by this – please do not resent me, love – I was elated. You must understand that I had so rarely seen such raw expression of emotion from a young woman before. You did nothing to hide these tears from me. You did nothing to tuck your emotions away. This delightful trait, you nobly carried into immortality. This freedom of feelings, you taught me. So long a lesson it was, but I have learned it finally, and I am proud to practice it in your loving arms."_

Though I no longer claimed the ability to produce tears, I felt the telltale prickle of venom burning in the beds of my eyes as he said this.

_"Your housekeeper brought out your music box, to distract you from the pain. She played it over and over for you while I worked to wrap your leg. She was glaring at me, and I knew she wished me to speed things along. But how could I, when your skin was unlike anything I had touched before? _

_You were oblivious to my fixation, my dear. Trying to soothe your tears, you murmured the lyrics to the song beneath your breath, unaware that I heard every word."_

Carlisle had bought me a music box many Christmases ago, a replica of the one in our story. It played the song of my childhood. He had remembered the lyrics and taught them to me, so that I could once again sing them as I did that very night.

When he mentioned the music box, he would sometimes pause the story to bring it out of the chest where we hid it, and play it once for me.

But his hands never abandoned my leg.

_"I held your leg in my lap, like so..." _And he demonstrated, taking my right leg across his knees just as he did that night. _"...I told you to speak out if I ever hurt you. Oddly enough, you never spoke out."_

"That was because you never _had_ hurt me, love," I reminded him sweetly, all hints of tears cast aside.

He smiled.

_"Your eyes watched me, so carefully as I worked. I could feel them upon my face, and this delighted me, indecently. You were shivering again, and I asked your housekeeper to fetch a blanket, but deep down I was wishing I could be the one to warm you."_

I reassured him that he would always be able to warm me now, and I kissed him hurriedly, so that he might continue.

I knew which part was coming next.

_"I shall never forget the sweet impatience in your voice as you asked your housekeeper to prepare your dinner for that evening. By your clever doing, the hovering young maid finally left us. We were alone together. _

_Your shivering never ceased, my dear. Even beneath the blanket, I could sense your trembling. To ease the tension between us, I teasingly suggested that your soaking wet hair had been the culprit for your chill. _

_You blushed and said it had been raining outside when you fell from the tree. As a good doctor must, I then asked if you had fallen unconscious. Timidly, you nodded. _

_Do you remember what I told you next?"_

Of course I remembered.

"Promise that you will never climb another tree for as long as you live," I recited fondly.

_"You did not take kindly to this request, my stubborn Esme. When you insisted that such a promise could not kept, I made an exception: Never climb another tree during a thunderstorm._

_To my knowledge you have remained true to this particular promise."_

Indeed, I had.

_"You smiled for me, your smile like the sunshine I was cursed to see only in the company of myself. You did not even recognize the bruises that stained your arms, or even the lightest smear of blood on the side of your forehead._

_I cleaned the blood away, prey to the inner war of our kind. You cannot imagine the lust that defiled my senses, yet I was able to overcome it in your innocent presence. You looked to me, so dependently as I tended to every bruise. I was gentle with you, frustratingly so. _

_I wanted to feel you, not simply touch you... I wanted to feel you, Esme..."_

If only he'd known _then_, just how dearly I'd wanted to feel _him. _

He ended the story, always, in the same way. His eyes grew distant, his face grew somber, and his lips were soft as he murmured his most profound regret.

_"I don't know why I left you."_

His voice drifted away at the end of the story, and his hands were drifting elsewhere. He always had to touch me after telling the story, to be sure I was still real, to remind himself that I was _his _to touch now. He never needed to hold back anymore.

We always needed to touch each other.

I confessed to him that for years after, I would recall his touch every night. With my imagination fueled by wonder and restless hormones, I would dream of his hands, tenderly mending the ache of my body beneath my quilts. All through my youth, I wished to have my doctor back, but he had been unreachable.

Now, he was real.

I would let his hands mark me, gentle but sure. I could bear the curse of blindness, but I would never fail to name the touch that belonged to my husband. No touch could rival his upon my flesh.

My husband's hands are strong. I know the strength of them better than any other, yet I know another secret of his hands that even he does not know. As he relives these memories from our first night together, I can feel his fingers tremble. Every time one of us mentions the first night we met, I can see the delicate quivers in his fingers.

Over the operating table he is as steady as steel, yet over my body he is struggling to keep hold on his strength. He is fragile until I am holding his hand, until he is reminded that we _have _met, and we _are _together. Here, we are together. Though it is a lovely memory for him to relive, I know that it frightens a part of him as well. I can see it not only in the trembling of his hands, but in the rippling of his eyes. He is thinking, in the very deepest caverns of his mind, "_What if...?"_

What if we had _not _met that night? What if he had not been the doctor visiting houses that evening? What if the storm had kept him from arriving at all?

This is why we must touch one another, to remind ourselves that there are no more "_What ifs." _

He _had_ found me. He _had_ healed me. Just over a decade later, I had healed him. We had healed each other.

But this night was not the only night of healing my husband and I have known.

Since our very first night as husband and wife, our world as lovers remains unlocked. There is still a purity to our love in this world. Our love is uninterrupted by anything outside the world we have discovered. Despite the hardships of our past, we are untainted when we are together. The past does not matter. The future does not matter. All that holds meaning is the _here and now_. And if we so desire, the _here and now _can last forever.

Pure touches, chaste touches never _feel _chaste. Each touch, no matter how light, is loaded with a silent promise.

Throughout the day, I must satisfy myself with these touches before the rest of the world. But the knowledge that these touches will be elaborated once we are alone is a thrilling reassurance. I can see that Carlisle shares this thrill when our eyes meet. He knows what I am thinking. He knows me so well.

He will take me away whenever I ask. I don't even need to say the words, and he will escort me from reality into fantasy. But here is where fantasy _becomes _reality. Everything, for this endlessly fixed frame of time, is what we dream it to be.

He will love me in different ways, but there is no one way I desire above the other. Every stroke of his love, whether wild or tame, passionate or gentle, creates a perfectly balanced composition for me to become a part of.

As the years swept us along, I noticed an intriguing pattern to my husband's habits. Whenever Carlisle told the story of my broken leg, he was exceptionally mindful of that leg as we made love. (And as the story somehow always led to making love, it was to be expected every time.)

He treated that leg like it still belonged to a breakable sixteen-year-old human girl, stroking it with soothing fingers, kissing it with gentle lips. He scarcely, if ever, let me exert it on my own. He always placed it favorably so, against his hip, and he held it there firmly so it would not fall away.

The sensitive curve of soft skin behind my knee was his favorite place for tending. I cannot count the minutes he spent there, touching, staring, tasting. I never asked him to share the significance of that tiny space. Perhaps I would have, if I'd been able to speak as he lingered there…

He loved me fervently, but patiently. He was thorough, as a distinguished surgeon should be. But he was never clinical in our bed, never conservative with his touch. He was, however, _criminal_ in his generosity.

He addressed me as '_Darling Esme_' as he decorated my bare leg with kisses, both elaborate and simple. His memory recalled the location of every bruise I'd had as a teenager, and to each of those tender spots his lips gave ample attention. I indulgently assumed my role in his innocent fantasy, wistfully addressing him as '_Doctor_' when he neared the pleading pallor of my thigh.

He must have tasted my ache for him, for in the next instant I would find him hovering above me, offering me the sacred remedy for every pain I had ever suffered in my life and what lay beyond. I locked him in my embrace, and he sighed his submission as I did my own. His motions were languid, his every stroke long and methodical. His eyes never left mine as he kindled renewal deep within me, whispering with every silken pass his promise to mend whatever part of me was broken.

In a way, my husband would forever remain my doctor.

He cured me, continuously. He injected his passion into me, and my heart received it readily. My fever was stirred, then soothed by his kisses; his venom was the sweetest medicine he could offer.

He gasped as his quest for pleasure grew too close to bear, but never did his eyes break away from mine. He saw me to my brink, and he let me fall, his eyes glowing as they witnessed my sighing stream of revelations. This was the only edge from which he would ever let me fall. But on this edge, he always fell with me.

We were submerged for those few precious, clutching seconds. In that moment, it always seemed that our ability to become one was not miraculous in any way. Rather, it seemed a miracle that we had ever lived our lives as two separate beings_. _

I once told him this – how I found it impossible that we could continue to live this way, beside each other, but not welded together at every moment of every day. My husband's response to this peculiar observation surprised me, as many of his responses tend to do.

"But we _are_ welded together at every moment of every day, my love. We _are_ one. Whether or not we are separate means nothing."

I was stunned that I had somehow missed the utter truth in this for so long.

That was decades ago.

Now I knew just how true it was.

But the moment when we fell together – when we _felt _together – was a moment made to be treasured. Yes, we were united by our souls, and the sensation of such a union was intoxicating in itself. But the union of our flesh only served to elevate that ever-present high, far past the stars.

Our descent was smooth and slow, easing us back into earth with loving hands. The soundless music in my ears faded to a bittersweet echo; the soft nest of pillows beneath me replaced the airy cradle of clouds. When I opened my eyes to the world again, my doctor was there, radiant in a way no other being would ever see him. I was given an unimaginable gift to bear witness to this rare radiance which he shared only with me.

In my ear he whispered that I was his favorite patient.

I turned my cheek to his and smiled, not intending that he see it.

He did.

I felt his finger lightly tease the struggling edge of my lip. Unable to resist the gentle power of that finger, I caved to his will, revealing the fullness of that smile I had tried to hide.

We parted, with tender reluctance, but our connection was more sound than it ever had been, long after the frantic grips of our love had released us. I told him what his love had done to me, I told him how he had healed me, and he responded with a beautifully satisfied hum of gratitude. And I knew I had healed him, too.

As he took me into his arms and buried his cheek in my hair, I was overcome with a vibrant, thrumming peace. I had no color to name this feeling, as was my usual eccentric way of describing my emotions. _"I'm feeling violet today, darling." _I would sometimes say to him. Or, _"Tonight feels very blue, wouldn't you agree?"_ It was my way of teasing him, in a way no one around us quite followed. What confounded me about Carlisle was that he somehow truly understood what I was talking about. Colors were our secret code for emotions.

But these moments when the sheets cooled around us and the breath slowed in our racing lungs, I was at a loss for color. But rather than lose myself in the melancholy, I settled my heart by deeming this moment _white. _

Yes, we were white like blank canvas. We were renewed, reborn from the gentle explosion of our simmering passions. We were cleared of our worries, our problems, our fears. We were safe in the lingering embrace of our love. We were pure, bare, free from the grasp of frustrations that twisted our outside world. This was the piece of heaven our marriage promised us. This was white.

Carlisle would never let me leave his arms. If I wanted to be set free, then I would be the one to free myself. It was a bittersweet moment when I finally raised my head in suggestion, but he was still reluctant to let me go, as I was reluctant to be released.

This vision – his golden blond head resting on the cloudy white pillow, the content amber glow of his gaze after his passions were sated – was so familiar, it had branded itself, like an ultraviolet bruise of lingering sunlight, beneath my eyes. My fingers traveled to his face, tracing the familiar art of his features. I would lull him with my affectionate touch until he closed his eyes, abandoning every tension in his body, and hopefully in his heart.

He was motionless, complacent, half his body consumed by the sheets surrounding him. The blizzard-colored silk was dark compared to his exquisitely pale skin, the flora of invisible but tangible emotions rising up around him like a field of peaceful flowers. His eyes, once they found mine, spoke too much for me to take in at once. I was thirsting for him, yes, but an entire waterfall of what I thirsted for, I did not need. He gave everything of himself to me, regardless of whether I could withstand it or not. He knew my whispered cries of '_no more_' were truly the fiercest permission I could give. When he saw my shyly averted gaze and my invisible blush, he knew that this was my way of saying '_yes_.'

He knew me better than I knew myself at times, and I loved him for this.

Perhaps any other woman would find discomfort in having a man know her so deeply, but I do not. Though a part of me sometimes desires to keep secrets from Carlisle, I know that he will discover these secrets in time, whether I offer them or not. This is a natural effect of eternity; it is unavoidable, inevitable.

But I have no desire to fight the inevitable.

Our future is colorful; I can see it clearly when I close my eyes. And though my past is hazy, I am reminded every day that the canvas of my past was blank before Carlisle stepped into my life. I tried to paint on my own, but my hands were unsteady and my strokes were disjointed. My colors were dull.

Carlisle will say that I showed him color, but in fact it was _in_ _him _where I found colors worthy of showing. He _is _the color in my world, the brightest spot on my canvas.

And I know that I am the brightest spot on his.

He tells me this, every time he tells me our story.


	3. Green

**Inspired by Green**

**Medium: Dove Feathers and Ivy**

* * *

_May 1923_

_~Carlisle_

I looked forward to sunny days now.

After a century or two of dreading the sunshine, Esme brought me reasons to love it again.

While my wife lay contentedly beneath the covers, I would sometimes slip away from our bed to wait by the window for the arrival of dawn like a humble, quiet servant preparing to greet his king. I watched the horizon with bated breath, longing to be lavished by the first golden rays of light. Upon seeing weak cirrus streak the sky, I was overcome with delight. I knew the clouds would fail to cover our most beloved star, and I would be forced to stay home.

The first beam of gentle light touched my bare shoulder, and I could have sworn I heard Esme sigh from her pillow.

We spent such days together wisely, and not an hour was wasted by our hands. The activities of the day were never predetermined; we were mostly spontaneous, thanks to my delightfully unpredictable wife. That first slant of sunlight through the window was a silent word of permission which we could accept however we pleased. If, by mutual interest, this meant slipping back beneath the sheets until noon, then it was done.

But sometimes we were too restless for that. There were wonders that waited outside our bedroom, even outside our home that we were destined to adore together.

One such morning, I had broken our unspoken rule of predetermination by organizing a small bundle of literature I'd planned to read on my day off from work. In my defense, I did not seek to exclude my wife from my plans. I asked her to join me outside where we could read in the sunshine, and with a small but radiant smile, she agreed.

"You're certain you wouldn't find your new office furniture more comfortable for reading?" Esme inquired teasingly as we walked hand in hand for the least shady of trees on our property.

I turned to her with a look of feigned suspicion. "Are you trying to keep me inside the house, dear?"

She bit back the threat of a smile. "No, I think a bit of sunshine would do you some good, Doctor."

"You're not one to talk, now. You're just as pale as I am."

"Then we must both sit in the sun," she ordered eagerly, her footfalls increasing the slightest bit.

"A fine suggestion," I muttered thoughtlessly, truly more focused on the way her skirt danced around her knees as she struggled to encourage my pace.

Esme's blushing lips twisted in an enviable smirk, and I all but lost my composure. "That means we'll most likely need to sit very close to one another..."

Finding her impulsive ways contagious, I played along. "Oh, I don't know. I imagine the sun offers quite enough for us both to share."

Her face twitched almost irritably for a split second, and I flinched with amusement as we came to stand beneath the erratic shade of the tree. "But look, darling, there is hardly any room for the two of us in this tiny spot of sunlight."

She gestured to the open space on the grass by the base of the tree, where a heavenly stream of picturesque golden light speared through the lush leaves above. It was where we usually sat, and we both knew there was quite enough space for neither of us to feel cheated from the sun's gaze. We just had to make accommodations (which usually required one of us to sacrifice our own spot on the ground for the other's lap.) It went without saying that we had no qualms about sharing such a small space.

But together we stared down the familiar circle of sunlight for a good fifteen seconds, pretending to ponder the problem at hand. Esme at last turned to me – a pout on her lips, but a twinkle in her eyes – and whispered regretfully, "We'll have to sit awfully close to make room."

"I have no opposition to such arrangements, my dear."

Her heart-softening giggles filled the air as I tugged her hand and took her down with me, letting the books I carried slide out of my grip and into the grass. She landed with a satisfying thump against my chest, strategically manipulating her bearings so as to find herself seated comfortably on my thigh.

"Hmm, this isn't so bad."

"No, it isn't," I agreed softly, tracing the scars in her neck with the tip of my nose.

I felt her tense as I touched the spot, but her breath evened quickly, and all at once she was nearly giddy as I leaned in closer to kiss one of the pale pink moons in her skin.

Just before my lips could meet with its twin, her neck veered at an angle out of my reach. Her curious little hands grasped onto two of the books I had brought, holding them up for her observation as she read the titles out loud.

"_Predominating Viruses in West India_," and "_Dr. Edward Jenner: A History of the Smallpox Vaccination_."

She turned to me abruptly, a curve of sly distaste on her lips, to which I smiled sheepishly. "I've been meaning to catch up on my research," I excused.

"What on earth are you researching, Carlisle?" she asked, her glance wavering between the books with a slight look of horror.

Mildly disgruntled, I tugged the heavier of the two volumes from her hand and pulled it possessively against my lap. "I have a dream, Esme. It's a foolish one, but I can admit to it."

Her mouth quirked in curiosity. "What is it?"

"I want to discover a new vaccination."

She didn't laugh as I'd expected her to. I hesitantly lifted my gaze to find her staring at me, with her head cocked to the side, and her cheeks sparkling in the sun. She did not look amused, she looked fascinated – intensely so.

"How come you never told me?"

I averted my eyes again, and flicked through the first few pages of my book while the weight of her stare urged me to explain myself.

I shrugged. "You don't seem to like it when I talk science."

"I like it when you _talk_," she amended gently.

"Well, I'm not going to defile your ears with talk of viruses, darling," I said as I shoved the books off to the side.

She giggled abruptly and pulled a few fingers through my hair. "Then we'll just have to find some more pleasant reading material, won't we?"

"How about reading minds?" a deep voice murmured from the branch above us.

"Edward!" Esme shouted, her tone somehow both jubilant and annoyed.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried not to laugh.

"Really, Esme, I can't believe you didn't notice," he said innocently. "I was sitting up here the entire time."

"If you had any manners at all, you'd have made yourself known when we first got here!" Esme scolded in a tone commendably reminiscent of a Victorian mother figure.

Edward jumped smoothly from the tree and shared a smirk before stalking off in the direction of the house. "I'm smart enough to leave when things get out of hand."

"Don't be ridiculous. We're just reading," Esme sniffed.

He looked back over his shoulder only to raise his eyebrows and nod patronizingly, unconvinced.

"Good luck with that vaccination, Carlisle," he said darkly, his subtle implications anything but lost on me. With a curt wave of his right hand, he disappeared over the hill.

"Did you know he was here the whole time?" Esme turned to me, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

I quickly straightened my face. "What? No! No, of course not." But Edward had been known to turn up places without my prior knowledge.

A forgiving smile spread across her features as she settled back into my arms. She was quiet for a while as her fingers toyed with the buttons on my collar. I waited a bit anxiously for the theoretical moment when one of them would accidentally slip loose.

"Are you enjoying the sun, Doctor?"

"Mm hm." _But not as much as I am enjoying you. _

She peered up at my conservative response, her hair tickling my chin as she tilted her head back.

I closed my eyes before she could meet my gaze, and I heard her breathe a disenchanted sort of sigh. "I believe all of your research on viruses has put you to sleep," she chuckled as her finger lightly poked a path from my forehead to my nose.

Having counted on my wife's face above me to block out the light, I squinted as I opened my eyes unexpectedly to the harsh face of the sun. Esme was now nearly free from my embrace, which was simply unacceptable. As I tried to pull her back, she resisted at first, and I whined in displeasure.

"What's this one about?" Esme asked as she lifted the elaborately decorated collection of short stories from the bottom of the stack.

"Oh, I came across that in the basement of a bookstore in town last week. They were going out of business, and they were giving some of the older books away. I found it curious since it had no title on the cover."

Esme paused to trace the shiny green border of ivy vines around the front cover before opening the book.

"Have you read any of it yet?" she asked as she thumbed through the colorful pages.

"Only one of the stories. It was a frightfully short one, darling."

"Which one?"

I straightened up behind her and pulled her slightly closer as I took one side of the book into my lap. "'Two Turtle Doves,' page 89."

A brilliant smile blossomed on her face as she came to the stunning illustration of the two birds, lovingly perched together on the bough of a tree.

"Read to me," she said, sliding back so that her head rested on my shoulder. With a soft-witted smile, I gave in to her whispered demand.

"_Two Turtle Doves_," I began formally, clearing my throat as if presenting to an audience. I could feel the pull of Esme's silent smile against my neck and viscerally, my head tilted toward hers like a magnet until my chin rested safely on her hair.

"On the highest branch of the tallest Laurel tree in the forest, there sits the loneliest of Turtle Doves. He sings a somber song, calling out to the tree nearby, in the hopes that another will hear him and come to visit. But none do.

"He grows tired of the days as they pass him by; grows weary of watching the clouds above and waves of wheatgrass below, with no other birds to keep him company. He listens for the song of another bird – any bird – a wayward chirp, a ruthless caw, a frivolous tweet. He is grateful for any song, no matter if it is tuneless or of the sweetest harmony.

"One early morning he heard a wayward chirp, a timid little twitter from the grass below. Peering down, he saw the cinnamon-speckled wings of a Crested Lark. She wandered through the wheatgrass, slight and flustered, looking for something, perhaps, that she had no hope to find. He wondered if she was looking for company as he was.

"The Turtle Dove called to the Crested Lark, hoping she could hear his muted coo from far above. She cocked her tiny head and glanced at her watcher with frightened eyes. He fluttered his wings in greeting, but she scampered off in a flurry, too shy to speak with him, and she was on her way.

"One night the Turtle Dove heard a ruthless caw, a loud and boisterous bellow, caught swooping through the cold night air. He was frightened by the foreign fanfare, but he held his own at his perch on the highest branch, waiting for his guest to land.

"The Turtle Dove took one hop back as the Hooded Crow swept down to block out the light of the moon. She stared at him with her beady coal eyes. She watched him quiver and she seemed pleased at his fright. Her feathers raised up like glossy black swords, and he fluttered away for cover from the sight.

"One afternoon the Turtle Dove heard a frivolous tweet, a bright happy song from the branch beside him. The Turtle Dove peeked curiously at his new neighbor, the Melodious Warbler. She was by far the most beautiful bird he had ever seen, with her colorful coat of fine feathers, sunshine orange and yellow-green. She whisked her wings and tail about, dancing for his attentions.

"Her interests seemed plain to the hopeful Turtle Dove. With a coo of delight, he inched slightly closer, and when she did not flinch, he welcomed himself to share her branch. But the moment his feet clutched the twig, she gave a theatrical shriek of surprise, and teasingly glided away.

"One evening, the Turtle Dove heard not a single birdsong on the air. He filled the tree with his own mournful melody, with none but the wind caring to join him.

"Then out of the clear blue sky, he heard a distant note, swift and true upon the air. He turned his head in surprise to the enchanting song. It was not a wayward chirp, or a ruthless caw, or a frivolous tweet. It was a song all too familiar to him. He had heard it every day – a gentle coo to match his own.

"She was singing there, in the tree across from his. She hopped from branch to branch, climbing toward the sky, her wings ruffling in excitement. She looked as if she were about to fly away.

"The Turtle Dove cried out to his mate, and she paused to stare at her twin from afar. Her eyes shined with hope as he watched her leap from her branch. And she rode the air like an angel with her wings outspread, welcoming him as he welcomed her.

"She landed most gracefully at his side, and they stared at one another, curious and questioning. Her eyes asked if he had been waiting for something, and his eyes responded that he waited for that something no more. Their heads came together as their wings entwined, and their ballad was heard in harmony throughout the forest. For there was no bond stronger than that of two Turtle Doves."

I paused as the story reached its end, and found that my hand had somehow become intertwined with my wife's over the page.

"I love this," Esme declared, her voice sweet in her throat. She lifted her head to gaze back at me, her smile full of wonder. "Thank you."

I hoped Esme knew that one kiss meant _you're welcome._

**-}0{-**

Once Esme had mentioned this affinity for turtle doves, it had embedded a seed in my mind. Being the hopelessly indulgent husband that I am, I decided to embark on a quest to please her. I would find a dove and bring it home to her.

Vendors for exotic birds were strange folk. I felt relatively uninteresting in the face of the shady gypsies with whom I made negotiations. Every Thursday evening, after my shift at the hospital was through, I would stop by the dim little pawn shop at the end of town to check up on the state of the discreet business.

I knew they had birds in that store. I could hear them singing every time I passed it, but no one in their right mind dared enter that place. Being a vampire, I safely supposed I would survive just a few visits to investigate.

Lo and behold, in the dusty store-front window were at least six separate cages, all filled with birds, both mangy and elegant. Some were picked off the streets, some were snagged by sheer luck. But I knew at least one was a dove. I'd heard its tender coo above the chaotic chirps of the rest.

That one dove, however, was frightfully full of energy, flittering wildly about its cage whenever someone walked past. It seemed desperate for some company, and I took pity on its desperation, having been in this familiar situation for years on my own. I stood before its cage and spoke to it that night, softly so as not to overwhelm it. Its tiny head twitched curiously back and forth as I spoke; I told it anything and everything that came to my mind. I talked about how my day at the hospital had gone. I talked about how much I loved my family.

He seemed interested.

Every time I had the chance, I stopped in the pawn shop on my way to work, on my way home, and between visiting patients. Visiting those birds became such a joy, something to look forward to on a bleak day.

It astounded me how each had its own personality. There was a parrot with bright scarlet and blue feathers – the annoying one who mocked the other birds' songs. There was a sly green-feathered finch with an elegant beak and a haughty pair of eyes – the proudest of the lot. There was a small, meek sparrow who kept to the corner of her cage – the quiet one. And there was a pair of identical black birds, with sharp streaks of a midnight blue shimmer in their glossy coats – the mysterious couple who kept to themselves.

But that eager little dove became my favorite character in the front window. We'd grown awfully close, bonding every other morning over talk of all things philosophical and frivolous. I expressed my anxiety over my patients' recoveries and in return he offered comfort in the form of his enthusiastic song.

He looked as though he wanted to be a part of my family.

"If I'm being honest, I'd be wise _not_ to take you home with me, my friend," I sighed to him, late one night. "You see, my wife would likely fall in love with _you,_ and where would that leave me?"

His head twitched to the side, innocently perplexed, and I chuckled.

I knew then that there was no way I could ever leave this dove behind. Foolish as I may have been, I named him on my third visit. He was the friendliest of the group in front of that window – at least to me, he was. He always listened to me ramble on about my day. He always looked me in the eye when I spoke to him. He was always so happy to see me.

I called him 'Khalil.'

No one had ever told me how easy it was to make friends with a bird.

I had made plans to purchase him the following week, but when I stopped by the shop at the end of the month, all the cages had gone but his. I would have sighed with relief at finding he was the last remaining, but it so happened that he was not.

There was a new bird who shared Khalil's cage – a bright, pure white dove... like him.

I was rather stunned by our new guest, and my feathered friend seemed to be equally shaken by her intrusion.

She was a queen, I was certain. Her plumes were long and glossy, like a feathered gown around her elegant wings. Her head held high, she did not twitch as her counterpart did, nor did she sing freely every time a guest passed by. No, she shared the enchantment of her somber song sparingly.

Oh, if I were a bird myself, my heart would have stung for this beauty. She was untouchable – the lady of the white tower, if there ever was one in the avian world.

They were a curious pair – both intriguing in their own unique ways – an odd couple indeed. I watched them converse together, sweet and shy. They seemed wary of my presence as I witnessed them in their cloistered little habitat, but they grew more comfortable with my shadow as time wore on.

I happily spent my mornings with them, sometimes before the sun rose. I came to know the female of the species after some gentle coaxing. She was stubborn with her affections, but once I was deemed worthy by her beady black eyes, I couldn't have been more elated.

I called her 'Kyria,' and she sang for me.

I _had _to have them. Esme would be smitten with them. My fingers were shaking just at the thought of what radiant joy these birds would bring her.

I must have looked a bit off myself as I approached the shopkeeper and requested the last two birds in the window. Greedy hands swallowed my offered cash, but I did not barter for fear of wasting any time. All I wanted were those doves, and I would have emptied my pockets and given the clothes off my back to take them home with me.

With a twisted but genuinely grateful smile, the Romani presented me with the two white doves, and a few shamelessly expressive hand gestures which I had guessed correctly were meant to inform me of their conflicting genders.

Somehow I'd known simply from their personalities that one was male and one was female. At the time, I wasn't certain if this was problematic or not.

They came in a lovely cage that resembled a bell of cold, white iron lace – a romantic sort of prison.

Those poor birds. I wondered how they could stand to be cooped up inside like that. But so long as they were together, they did not seem to mind the confined space.

The morning I brought them home with me was one of those chilly mornings when the frost stays well past dawn and the sun does very little to warm the earth. As I walked up the drive to our house, a hundred delightful little fantasies squirmed through my mind as I imagined the many ways my wife could react to her gift.

However, the reaction I'd received was not one of the hundred I'd imagined.

I heard the soft patter of her bare feet on the tile before I reached the door. She opened it for me, standing still as the cold wind caressed her hair and fluttered her nightdress. She was shivering, but she did nothing to protect herself from the chill. Her skin just drank it in, while her eyes drank _me _in. We both stood across from each other, neither one of us staring at the twittering pair of caged doves. They sang and flitted about with their fine white feathers, vying for our attention. But we had eyes only for each other.

"You bought me doves," my wife whispered at last, her voice raw and soft and young in the frosty air.

The birds cooed and chirped in encouragement as I nodded my head, speechless for all my anticipation of this moment.

Esme seemed to want to smile, but her lovely lips could not manage. She still held the door handle, and her toes were still tight upon the floor. Taking a deep breath, I held up the elegant white cage for her inspection, twirling it slowly for her to view it from a new angle. Her eyes were drawn to it, but my eyes stayed fixed on her.

Her lips fell in a soft red pout as she watched the birds frolic about, as if showing off for their new owner. Her hand left the door handle to cover her heart, and her eyes said all that her lips could not. She was drinking in the moment, savoring the simplicity of the frost and the chirping and the half-open front door, wondering how two of God's sweetest creatures came to be in her possession.

"We should bring them inside before they get too cold," I said as I walked across the threshold. Esme did not move to accommodate my entry, and so I pressed against her as the door was closed behind me. She let out a tiny gasp and her breath somehow found its way to the base of my neck.

"You bought me doves," she whispered again, unexpectedly.

The more energetic of the two birds chirped in delight.

"I did," I answered.

Before I'd even felt her hand in my hair, she had me an inch away from her face. Her lips seized mine in a manner that managed to be both gentle and demanding.

"You... are... wonderful."

Goodness knows, if this were the kind of treatment a husband received for bringing birds home to his wife, I would have gladly bought the entire National Aviary for Esme.

I never mentioned to her the tragedy of how expensive they were. She might have cried if she knew.

"Let's find a place for them," I whispered, suddenly exceedingly excited for our new feathery companions.

"The music room?" Esme suggested, gliding through the doors.

"Are you sure Edward won't mind?"

She grinned impishly, the quirk in her upper lip deliciously crooked. "They can sing along with his piano playing."

I chuckled rather robustly, more than glad our son had not been present to hear it.

Esme and I wandered about the music room, reorganizing clutter and experimenting with different places to find the perfect home for our birds. It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. Esme seemed to have something special in mind, but nothing was particularly fitting for her.

We tried the empty wall unit, and the desk by the window, and on top of the piano. I thought any place would suffice, but Esme was still waiting for the perfect spot to jump out at her like "the image you would find on a greeting card," as she so eloquently described it.

"I do think they should be beside the window," I mentioned off-handedly, holding the cage up to the faded light while Esme pulled back the curtains. The birds both chanted harmoniously at the suggestion of more overcast sun. It must have reminded them of their window in the pawn shop.

I saw Esme smiling from the corner of my eye, and took it as positive feedback. Carefully, I lowered the cage to the ground, placing it strategically in front of the floor length window. Esme took the curtain from the right side as I took the left, and together we parted the thick layers of fabric, as if preparing for a stage production.

The doves sang in their spotlight of sun, right on cue.

With an enchanted gleam in her beautiful eyes, Esme knelt before the cage on the carpet beside them, for the first time getting to know their faces up close. "I think they like it here," she murmured in wonder.

"Right here?" I asked softly as I sank to my knee beside her.

"Right here," she confirmed, stroking the carpet by my leg. "In the light."

Relaxing into the warm spot, I settled back against the wall, dragging the cage a bit closer to the window along with me. Esme crawled gingerly between my legs and nestled against my chest, her cheeks bright with contentment.

We watched the doves peacefully for a long while, just resting there on the carpet, in the sporadic sea of sunlight streaming in from the window. The birds' song was sweet and soothing, our own private ambience of early dawn, safe between the walls of our home.

"They must have names," Esme spoke at last, her tone fond.

"Hmm. I thought of names, myself."

"Oh?" She seemed pleasantly surprised.

"Yes, I'd come to know them quite well after some time. Of course, I'd been visiting them for weeks before I finally decided to...erm, adopt them."

"You already named them?" I could not tell whether her tone was sad or merely interested.

"I couldn't help myself, darling."

She patted my knee with one hand. "Tell me."

"Well, you see, from the moment I first saw him, the male bird here was quite an outgoing little fellow. He chirped incessantly to gain my attention, but there was something about him that I found hopelessly charming. I called him 'Khalil,' the Arabic word for _friend_."

Esme's eyes were starry, and I took her smile as encouragement to continue. "The female, however, is a very different story. She's much calmer, more elegant and slightly aloof. I called her 'Kyria' which means _Noble lady._"

Esme giggled then, and tipped her head back to gaze at me directly. "I should have known you would pick names that came straight from the Biblical times, darling."

I sheepishly pushed a hand through my hair as she went on smiling teasingly. "They were the first that came to mind," I admitted.

"They're beautiful names," she whispered, her voice rich with truth. "They fit them both perfectly."

Both birds settled together on their perch, cuddling as they had never done before, as if it were the most natural gesture. I smiled to myself, more than a little surprised at their sudden bonding, though I did not reveal this to my wife.

I stroked Esme's hair back, tucking long curls behind her delicate ears. "So what do you think?" I asked her.

"I think I love them," she professed, her hand holding tighter to my knee.

"So do I," I replied in a low voice. But I knew she had heard me when her head nestled closer into my neck.

Our doves were singing, purring peacefully in a loving conversation, exchanging secrets we vampires could not hope to understand. They were closer now than I had ever seen them before, and I could not have been more pleased that they had fallen for one another in so short a time. I wondered vaguely if the love they had seen between Esme and me had inspired them...

"Don't they remind you of us?" Esme asked me.

I just laughed softly into her hair.

Later that afternoon, when the world was warmer, we took the birdcage outside to our garden. Esme had perfected that garden on our property, after months of hard work and cursing the weather for being uncooperative. I was slack-jawed when she showed it to me for the first time. It astounded me that my wife had such command over the foliage, such care to tend to every last flower in seeing that it faced in the right direction. That garden had become her artwork. And now that it was finished, the garden welcomed us to become a part of that artwork.

It was stunning, and _we _were stunning within it – a pointillist masterpiece of delicious emotions, a moving mosaic of colors and feelings. We were one with nature just as we were one with each other.

Edward hated that we called the garden "Our Eden."

"Where do you think they would like to stay?" I asked Esme as I held up the cage of fluttering doves.

"Look how excited they are!" she remarked with a blinding sparkle in her eyes. Her hand swept casually across her heart and my knees felt weak.

"Yes, I'm sure they feel quite at home here," I added with a breathless chuckle.

"Carlisle, we must take them to our tree," she gestured at once, her eyes laughing and urgent. Before I could reply, she had run off for the place where we read together, her skirt fluttering blissfully around her bare knees.

"Shall we follow her?" I consulted with the doves. Kyria cocked her head skeptically, but Khalil whisked his wings enthusiastically. I laughed. "That's two votes 'yes,' Kyria."

She did not seem too disappointed that the males had beat her out.

"Come on, Carlisle!" Esme called for me, her voice distant and jubilant, and God struck me to follow her at once.

_Coming, my angel. I am coming. _

I bolted after her, gliding swiftly through the grass while minding my doves. Esme's doves.

Our doves.

Esme was giggling uncontrollably by the time I reached our tree. Her hands collided with my chest as she stole the cage with one finger and hung it on the lowest branch.

"Sweetheart."

Before I could move a muscle, Esme's lips were clasped to mine, her hands sliding up my back to pull me down over her in the grass. She drowned herself in a shallow sea of ivy leaves, her cedar curls shimmering in the sunlight. "Make love to me," she breathed.

I'd thought of it first.

My hands were already under her blouse, around her waist, beneath her back. In the time it had taken her to propose it, we were both halfway disrobed. The velvet scents of earth and grass were tainted by her sweetness, and my struggle to keep a steady hand was challenged by every tedious button and knot.

Then, in the midst of my hastening urgency, Esme took my hand in hers and looked at me, her carnelian eyes calm. She smiled very gently, and paused to trace the inside of just one of my fingers with hers. A curious shiver drew forth from me, and seeing this, Esme raised herself up to press her lips to my throat.

The calm once again collapsed around us, what was left of our garments shed in instants upon the grass. My hands and her hands, her sighs and my sighs – when we do this, I can scarcely tell whose is whose. Her fever licked along the ice of my skin, every inch melting beneath her touch. Often, a poisonous thought will sprout in the hidden garden of my mind, a memory of how I had once longed for_ this_, not knowing if I would ever be granted the power to possess it. This wayward thought made me shudder, always.

Esme knew there was a broken part of me. She named every reason for my petrified trembles, and when she found them, she kissed them so they hurt just a little less. _'Let me heal you,' _her eyes whispered soundly. _'Do not be afraid.'_

And I was never afraid again.

Esme was radiant beneath me. Her cloud-colored skin so smooth, able to stir desperation in even the most stoic of men. My rigid heart beat down in my chest, begging me to melt into her, to take her slender white limbs and dress myself in them, knowing they would be enough to keep me warm. She opened herself for me, a prone angel, seemingly aware of my every thought as it strummed inside my head.

Her arms laid aside, like limp wings in the grass, and her legs were drawn up, tentatively. She was like a lithe, pearl doll on her bed of dewdrops and strands of emerald. The grass around her seemed just as eager to touch her skin, and I burned with irrational jealousy as the wispy green fingers reached for my wife. As the clouds rolled overhead, the shadows and light danced across her flawless flesh, painting her for my temptation.

I brushed those adulterous blades of grass aside, but I could not stop them from teasing her sides as she moved. An infant fire of possession rumbled inside my throat, but my wife soothed me with her gentlest of kisses. Each time our lips met, my heart's fire tamed.

My hands felt her body, everywhere. Her texture was the same, but every place I touched was so different. Each curve told its own story, each crevice remembered the pressure of my fingers, and responded to my touch as if it had been dearly missed. I trailed my fingers down the sides of her body, and she gasped when I reached an end.

As I looked to her face, I saw my reflection glistening in her gaze – the utter strength of the love I saw in my own eyes terrified me, and made me want to strengthen it further. I wanted to forge this love, and build upon it, cast it in precious metals, and force it inside of her.

Esme read this thought, and her eyes brightened wildly, every pulse of her lashes granting me another piece of her permission. Her gaze smothered my hands, her lips weak as she watched me, and I struggled for strength as I placed my palms upon her knees, gently drawing them apart. She did not resist.

She was vigilant to my caress as I carried it down, down a soft, familiar journey until there was nowhere left to go but inside of her.

My fingers crept inward the rest of the way, glazing gently along the moist seam between her thighs. She raised her hips from the ivy, beckoning me, and I withdrew my fingers to fill her properly. Slowly I pressed inside of her, making certain she felt how dearly I adored her, hoping she knew that every inch was a testimony to how fiercely I needed her. As she shuddered around me, I was coated in her nectar, and it was clear that she knew very well what every inch meant.

She reached for me with both her arms, grasping my shoulders and pulling me closer, encouraging me to sink to the depths of her love's endless ocean. It was a dangerous plunge, but she dared me to take it all. The deeper I went, the greater the pressure; the further I fell, the harder I would land.

If we spoke, it was senseless. Words had all but lost their meaning once we were linked. Somewhere below, our souls were speaking to each other, deep between us. We could hear the whispers if we listened carefully, if we moved a little closer, if she tugged me just a tad deeper...

I reached a place, so soft and perfect, so far within her I had no name for this place, and I did not know if she even knew it existed. But I did. I did not always find it, but when I came into it, I was welcomed passionately. This cradle was firm as it held me, silken as it stroked me, too warm for words. A current of pure wholeness rushed through me from this sacred point, and I wondered if Esme had summoned that very current herself.

Her eyes were distant from the world alone – for I knew they were distant from all that was tangible, all that was coarse. Her eyes were far away, in the realm where I imagined my own were, and while we looked at each other, we did not see the other's face as we had known it. We saw what was beneath and between and buried.

I was reckless with need when she stared at me this way. My movements were rushing faster and firmer, all to bring her what I knew she desired. Our goal was the same, her desire was my own. In the beginning I had worried I would break the cradle deep within her. My force was not light, though the grip that held me was soft... But no matter how demanding, how desperate my intrusions became, she asked for me still, and the grasp of her love had forgiven me, gentle as before.

My every thrust hoped to reach that place again and again. There had been a time when I was terrified to leave it for even an instant, fearing I might never find it again. But when I wanted it enough, when I took the time, I always found it. I was fascinated by the way I always found it... Like I was meant to be nowhere else.

I could not count how many times I reached this place. Numbers simply did not exist in this endeavor. I knew how far I had gone by the expressive beauty of my wife's every sound, every motion. Then, whether I had foreseen it or not, one return would mark itself the final one and in that moment, I was unable to leave the cradle behind.

She trapped me, forced me to stay with her as the pleasure ruptured her body, swelling in a sweet flood. This pleasure _I _had given her. It tied her down and assaulted her with all she had asked for, offering her more than she could withstand. I had no power here, though it would seem quite the opposite; the power was hers alone. Esme infected me with her every shudder, and her loss of reason became my own.

Everything I held away from the world, away from myself, was freed in a restless stream of hopes and worries and unspoken feelings. My passions spun into silk, and filled every beckoning space inside of her.

My ears were open to many sounds, all of them blending seamlessly into the other in a soft, tremulous song. Esme's melodious gasps, the whispers of our souls inside of us, my lungs beating out the last of my breath...and, vaguely, the shy and curious coo of two doves communing above me...

My wife subsided into sublime stillness, and the only moving parts of her were her little hands, kneading appreciatively into my hips while she rested. I caved in over her, slowly kissing one cheek then the other. Lazy, back and forth.

We lay beneath the erratic shade of that tree, this time without a care as to who could share the sunlight. The weak golden beams laved over our bodies where they pleased, but we did not notice. The golds and browns and greens swirled around me – the artwork of our earth – but I did not savor them as lovingly as I savored the artwork of my wife, a graceful splash of womanly white in nature's bed.

My fingers traced along her porcelain face, her passion fruit lips, the caramel fountain of her curls. Her eyes fluttered shut as her soul whispered one final word to mine far inside – a word of parting, a single syllable of gratitude, a purring hum of appreciation. Satisfied with her tender farewell, I withdrew from my cradle, still warm from the heat of her grasp.

Esme stirred at long last, her breath leaving her lips in a sweet gust against my chin.

"You bought me doves..." her wayward thought echoed once more, in the throes of beautiful bliss.

My lips twitched into a helpless smile as I glanced up to the tree above us.

I'd forgotten we were being watched.

* * *

_**A/N: **__"Two Turtle Doves" was a short story written by me, specifically for this chapter. You could probably tell, but just in case anyone was wondering. If you have a second to spare, please leave a review. We authors write thousands of words, and we ask for only one or two in return. _

_Thank you for reading,_

_Mackenzie_


	4. Yellow

**Inspired by Yellow**

**Medium: Acrylic on Canvas**

* * *

_September 1952_

_~Esme_

There is a saying shared among some of art's greatest painters, that a canvas can never be too big. That art is not confined to the world, and therefore art should be presented in a scale that is larger than life.

As an artist, my inspiration is constantly changing. There is nothing constant about art, which makes it a brilliant contrast to a mundane life. Though I hesitate to call _my _life mundane, I like to think that a little chaos on canvas can do even the most hectic mind some good.

I suppose this morning I'd gotten a bit carried away by the notion.

Only as I stood up from the dining room floor did I notice the precise dimensions of the canvas I had just set were nearly twice the length of my own body on every side. Pushing my hair back out of my forehead, I sighed, wondering how to cure this particularly intriguing disaster.

I knew _what _I wanted to paint. I knew _what _I wanted to express. I just didn't know how to go about doing it.

I slowly circled the large blank rectangle with a finger to my chin, gauging the possibilities, looking at it from every angle and in every light. I imagined that canvas covered in perhaps twenty different ways, but I knew the challenge would be daunting at best to complete. I'd never dared to start a painting so monumental; it seemed intimidating to be going about it alone.

Just as the thought crossed my mind, the sunlight tapped my shoulder and offered me a solution.

Containing a smile was somehow easy as I rushed into the next room, twirling my paintbrush as I went. I glided through the door, looking very much the part of a flustered artist – at least I imagined I must have looked that way in my husband's eyes.

"I want to make a painting with you," I said to him.

He looked up from his paperwork in confusion, wondering, perhaps, if I was offering him a choice or not.

I suppose I really wasn't.

"I stretched a new canvas this morning, and it's too big for me to paint on my own," I explained, hardly able to suppress my smile any longer. "I want you to help me."

His blond brows drew closer together as he tentatively set down his writing pen. "How?"

"Let's just...lay the canvas on the floor, and get every color of paint imaginable, and just...go wild!"

His eyebrows shot up. Surely the proposition must have sounded strange coming from a woman who had been relatively reserved with her paintings – that was, until the birth of modern art.

I had been newly inspired.

I don't know exactly what response I was anticipating from him. I hadn't really considered how he would react at all. I just rode the rush of my whim, and I asked him. Like almost everything else I had been doing lately, it was whimsical and spontaneous.

Carlisle's eyes were sparkling like whirlpools of fire, but his smile was soft and slightly bemused. "Do you think I could be 'wild,' my love?"

I let him see me shiver.

"I know you can."

**-}0{-**

We both wore white on purpose so that we could look more a mess when we were finished.

It hadn't been something I'd suggested, but somehow we'd both just assumed it was best. At first I'd thought it tragic that Carlisle would be getting such a lovely white shirt spattered with paint. But the image of him in such a state as I saw it in my head was, unsurprisingly, appealing.

Likewise, I wore the whitest sundress I could dig out of my wardrobe. In all honesty, I could have cared less if it was ruined for good. White often looked better when it was covered with clusters of mismatched colors. I would keep it that way for years to come, and I would always remember it as the dress I'd worn when we made art together.

Carlisle looked adorably uncertain as I introduced him to the "new-fangled" wonders of acrylic paint.

"The thing about acrylics is that you have to work fast with them. They don't take weeks to dry like oils do," I warned.

"Well, that's a relief," he teased.

I arched an eyebrow at him as I knelt down neatly beside the canvas. "We'll see if you can keep up, Doctor."

He chuckled smartly, accepting the challenge as he sat down on the other side of the canvas. "Hand me one of the paintbrushes, then."

I reached into my box of supplies and sent him the tiniest one, which earned me a brief glare of mild frustration. I stifled a laugh at his expression and helped myself to a brush with broader bristles.

"Think of it this way," I said brightly, "You'll be perfecting whatever I paint. I gave you the detail brush for a reason, darling."

He made a face, but politely accepted the jar of lemon yellow paint I offered him. He unscrewed the lid and lifted the brush, about to dip it into the color when he realized there was something missing. I let his eyes wander aimlessly for a few seconds because it was rather adorable to watch him grow frantic.

"I have some water right here," I pointed to the full crystal champagne glass on the floor beside me.

He took one look at the fancy stem and chuckled. "An appropriate choice. Were you looking to create a cocktail party atmosphere?"

I laughed languidly and settled more casually on the floor, lying flat on my stomach so my chin hovered just above the edge of the canvas. "We _are_ in the dining room," I reminded.

He smiled to himself. "So, what are we painting?"

"Nothing specific," I teased. "We're going to try Abstract Expressionism."

His forehead crinkled in confusion. "Not those random lines and splotches?"

"Yes, that's precisely the style I mean."

He laughed in defeat. "How do you even begin to paint a mess like that?"

"Abstract Expressionism is not a 'mess,' darling. You are expressing yourself through abstract means. Use the paint to draw your feelings. Use the colors to describe your emotions."

"Well, that's fine, love, but you've only given me this _blinding_ yellow to work with, and I'm not sure I've ever felt an emotion that was quite compatible with this color."

I laughed ruthlessly and pushed the jar back to him when he tried to return it. "Make it work, then."

He sighed and stared broodingly at his paintbrush for a while as I worked the first strokes of bright magenta into the canvas.

I could see his eyes drifting over to watch me paint every so often, and though I longed to show him where to begin, I had promised myself that I would let him figure things out on his own.

"What are you waiting for?" I questioned coyly.

He shrugged one shoulder, absently sliding the dry bristles of his paintbrush across his fingers. "I don't know what to paint."

"Paint what you feel," I suggested.

His eyes lifted to mine from beneath heavy lids, and I assumed he was being purposefully cryptic just to taunt me. "I don't know what I feel."

"Yes you do," I countered softly.

His eyes sparkled like gemstones in the light. "How would you paint _love_?"

His breathless inquiry was irresistible, and I was dangerously tempted to answer his passionate question with a passionate answer of my own.

Somehow I forced myself to refuse him with a stealthy little grin. "I'm not telling you that."

He pouted. "Why not?"

"The way I would paint _love_ might be very different from how you would paint it. This has to come from _your_ heart." I raised my eyes to stare at him when he was silent, and my lips quirked into a helpless smile. "I want to see what _your_ heart looks like in paint."

His eyes held mine for a moment or two before he lifted the paintbrush with conviction and delicately doused the bristles in lemon yellow.

He was so concentrated, so patient, so cerebral about every brushstroke. He was so uncertain when he should have been commanding. I wanted to teach him how to take control of the canvas, but for the moment I truly enjoyed watching him get lost in it.

Eventually, I just couldn't help the giddy laughter that broke free as I watched him.

"What?" He twitched in defense.

"Nothing." I shook my head and returned to painting my own corner.

For a while I pretended to be absorbed in my own endeavors, while keeping an eye on Carlisle as he painted, lost in his own little world.

I found it fascinating that he chose to paint with his left hand instead of his favored right. Even more fascinating was the way the tiny pink point of his tongue crept out to touch his upper lip as he worked. My heart heated for him, just admiring every insignificant blink of his eyelashes, every tender twitch of his wrist as he moved the paintbrush.

Unable to resist the intimacy the process of painting promised, I moistened my paintbrush and inched closer to him, getting plenty of paint on my dress as I did so.

"Let's put our colors together," I proposed softly.

My husband shifted closer to me with a smile, the strokes of his paintbrush growing more eager as he neared me, and it thrilled me to think that I was his inspiration. Like my dress, his perfect white shirt was now covered in a rainbow of speckles across the collar, and down his back to his waist... and even more thrilling was the fact that he did not seem to care.

I imagined my own clothes were just as colorful by now.

Our paintbrushes danced flirtatiously around each other, sometimes clashing, sometimes with a teasing pass beside the other. The bristles whispered to each other as the paint followed with its fluid murmurs; it was quite an entrancing conversation we were having through our painting.

The colors were full and vivid, blooming off of each other like wild parrot feathers – green to yellow to orange, with scarlet accents and streaks of cerulean. I knew I had not been the one who had made these colors, and this almost made me envious. Carlisle and every one of his perfect accidents had forced this enchanting rainbow to appear on my empty canvas.

My momentary envy swiftly dropped away, leaving any residual passion to fester into pure excitement. I was practically high on these colors. With a mad burst of energy, I rolled over and sprung to my feet, taking the palette knife between my fingers and the jar of pink paint in my hand.

"Let me show you what Jackson Pollack would do."

Carlisle turned over to lay on his side, grinning up at me in such a way that made the urge to smother him in kisses nearly impossible to resist.

Somehow I managed to demonstrate the flinging of paint across the canvas for him, to which he laughed contagiously.

"Oh, Good Lord, how is _that _art?" My husband was humorously appalled. Understandable, considering the standard of art for his time, but in no way acceptable. I graciously took it upon myself to convert him.

"Expand your mind a bit, darling. Pollack is making an argument that the spontaneity of the paint is an art itself."

Carlisle heaved a doubtful sigh as he rose to his feet. A wicked smile crossed his lips as he stepped beside me, leaning close to my ear. "Well, I know spontaneity pretty well."

He grabbed my waist rather suddenly, but I was not surprised when he kissed my neck from behind. I giggled uncontrollably until he made the palette knife and paint jar fall from my hand. Our feet were probably pink.

"But _this _isn't art, dear," I sighed as his lips nibbled my earlobe.

He paused to breathe over my skin and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and challenging. "Isn't it?"

"Come now, Carlisle."

He raised both eyebrows, and my face felt a fire.

"Give me a minute or two?"

I shoved his shoulder, but he pulled me back into his arms. Strategically, he lowered me so that my back was flush against the perfectly wet canvas, and I gasped as the paint bled into my dress.

"Carlisle!" I yelped his name as if it were the greatest scandal. "What on earth are you doing?"

He blinked his golden eyes, smiling in a way that managed to look both innocent and naughty. "Making art with you." He took my hand in his and placed my fingers on the very first button of his collar.

Struggling beneath him with my elbows slipping around in the wet paint was deliciously frustrating. My hair was tinged with red and purple as he wound a long curl around his finger and drew me closer.

"And you thought you couldn't be wild."

Our lips found each other in a fervent collision as my fingers raced to undo the buttons of his shirt. I succeeded flawlessly, tossing the speckled cotton aside to free his chest. One magenta handprint was left behind on his shoulder as my palm slid down his front, the pink pigment melting over his muscles. Biased though I may be, I thought it was brilliantly becoming on him.

Carlisle's smile suddenly inverted into a small pout as he watched me unlace the ties of my dress. I slowed my motions in concern, eyeing him questioningly until he spoke.

"I must confess I rather miss your enthusiasm for impressionism," he mentioned cryptically.

I tilted my head to the side and whispered reassuringly, "I'm still fond of impressionism."

The pout on his lips was replaced by a tiny but sly smile. "Tell me…the brushstrokes are very…quick, are they not?" he questioned delicately, his fingers roaming suggestively across my knuckles. "Very… feverish."

I nodded speechlessly as his hand captured mine and brought it slightly closer to his midriff.

He spoke again, his voice deepening with every word. "When I first discovered you were an artist, you were first and foremost an impressionist."

I lowered my eyelashes, with a coy smirk of understanding. "I still am."

"Then impress me."

With his breathless encouragement, I fiendishly tore the rest of his clothing off, pausing only to unlatch the buckle on his belt before I slid his trousers past his knees. I was aware that my hands were still smeared with paint, but Carlisle seemed anything but displeased as the colors rubbed onto his skin.

Of course he was anything but displeased. I was touching him.

His breath quickened in a most appealing tempo as he unraveled the strings on my dress and pulled it over my shoulders. I watched him carefully as he undressed me the rest of the way, my hand reaching up to affectionately brush his cheek as he rushed through the task.

It was a signature gesture we both shared – one calm, sweet motion in the midst of fevered chaos. Somehow that tiny touch became the most striking of all.

His eyes flickered up to meet mine as soon as my fingers brushed the smooth line of his jaw, leaving behind a trail of opaque lavender. I giggled softly as he smiled at me, and before I knew it, his lips were pressed against mine.

Our kisses quickly grew more impatient, and the paint beneath my bare back was surely going to stain for a while.

I broke the kiss to inform him, "You may have to grow used to having a wife with rainbow skin."

He laughed heartily, reaching around me to tickle my shoulder blades. "We can always bathe afterwards..."

The suggestion barely left his mouth before our lips were locked together again, our tongues dueling lovingly inside. As Carlisle pressed me more firmly against the canvas, I retaliated with another series of bright magenta handprints against his chest. He purred softly as my hands slid further down over his stomach, drawing together at last to clasp him gently beneath his waist.

He had requested the feverish strokes of an impressionist, and I was well-practiced to indulge him with my talents.

A lovely shudder ran through his strong body as my fingers fiercely caressed him, back and forth.

"You're making me pink," he accused huskily.

I smiled deviously, admiring the new, flushing sort of skin tone I had bestowed upon his most masculine parts. "You look pretty that way."

He cocked his head, staring down at the color in question, and I was torn between giggling and swooning at the expression on his face.

"Let's see how _you _look covered in arbitrary colors."

His threat was adorably soft-spoken, and though I teased him a bit by wriggling out of his way, he caught me easily and pulled me back underneath him to paint his fingers smoothly across my collarbone.

I gasped, more with pleasure than outrage, but he could guess which it was. I lifted my head to watch as his fingers slowed sensually over my breasts, leaving behind swirling trails of white and sky blue. His thumbs methodically worked the colors in little circles over my flesh, traveling lower with every quivering breath I took.

He paused to dip his fingers into the canvas, gathering several more colors with which to decorate my stomach. The slick feel of the paint was delightful under the workings of his agile fingers. It was fascinating to think that every one of his strokes would be marked, in various colors, reminding me of every precise place he had touched. The pressure of that touch was manifest in the brightness of the paint, the tenderness of it showing in every meticulous design his fingers had left behind. After a while of savoring the experience of being used as a canvas, I fondly expressed my fear of looking more like an elaborate Persian rug by the time he was through.

"I don't know how else to paint you, my dear," he excused with a low chuckle.

"Is this an implied statement that you may '_walk all over me_?'"

"Hardly," he defended quickly.

"Hmm. Sigmund Freud might interpret it a bit differently, Doctor."

Luckily, Carlisle could appreciate such a reference. He accepted my wit with enthusiastic kisses around my throat, his multi-colored surgeon fingers twirling in my hair. I finally lifted my legs from the canvas, sliding them around his waist in suggestion that we christen our painting sooner rather than later.

Carlisle pulled his hands from my hair immediately to stroke his fingers down my thighs. My skin was colored in patriotic smears of blue, white, and crimson, the colors growing noticeably more opaque the closer they came to the heart of my hips.

His fingers were firmer here.

I whimpered as I felt one of his hands leave me, and before I could see where he was reaching, a feathery, much lighter touch teased the edge of my hip.

I looked down to find Carlisle holding one of my smaller paintbrushes to my skin, a wickedly wistful smile on his lips as he stroked the bristles gently down my belly.

"Haven't you painted me enough, darling?" I asked throatily, surrendering with a flutter of my eyelashes.

"You gave me the detail brush for a reason, did you not?" he reminded me in a low voice as he leaned in closer. "And now, I intend to fill in every detail…"

I shuddered in delight as he dragged the paintbrush over the curve of my hip, slowing as he came into the crevice of my thigh. There he paused tortuously, before sliding the brush a bit more firmly into my lap. My legs parted further in invitation, but he playfully drew away to dip the brush into the water before continuing his teasing path. The gentle prickle of the cool, wet bristles melted into my most sensitive flesh, leaving a pool of liquid desire in its wake.

Now I knew what my paintings felt like when Carlisle decided to take a brush to them.

I was jealous.

I caught his eyes on mine as I looked up at his face, pleasantly astounded to see the wild gleam in his bright honey gaze. Certainly Carlisle was the last person on earth to be participating in such a scandalous practice, yet he seemed thrilled to be lost in the spontaneity of it all. I could see that sparkle in his eye that couldn't believe what we were doing. I could see that same disbelief in the charming dimple on the corner of his mouth.

By the permission in my gaze, he withdrew the wet paintbrush, now coated in an entirely new medium, and dropped it beside us on the canvas. Propping myself up on my slippery elbows, I licked the underside of his chin in encouragement, and he finally aligned our hips.

The paint on my thighs rubbed off onto his as he slid closer. The colors looked quite content on his skin, I thought. They seemed brighter, warmer, happy to be there. I didn't blame them.

I sighed as he grasped my hips with both hands, his fingers spreading out to leave beautiful green and yellow wings on my midriff. I reached down with my own hands to follow the path his had set, letting the last bit of pink paint on my fingers mingle with his. Our colors blended lovingly into one another – bright orange where the pink fused with the yellow, and vivid lime where the yellow kindled the green.

His eyes were glowing as he watched his artwork blossom below my belly, and I thought he wore the look of quiet pride too well for words. My hands reached out in desperate praise, stretching towards my light. He leaned forward to let me touch him, my hands accentuating the thick curves of his biceps with mint green acrylic. By this moment in time, I had no idea where these colors were coming from.

Each crevice of muscle on Carlisle's stomach was etched with a different hue – wine red, sea foam green, a touch of fiery orange. The expression of the colors changed with his every breath, a rippling effect that caused them to dance sporadically across his torso. At one point, the sunlight caught us in our act, adding a fleeting shimmer to our color-coated bodies as we moved together.

His name tripped off my tongue, and by that point he knew I was all but bleeding my readiness to receive him. With tortured but tender eyes, he came home between my thighs, sinking sensually into my aching embrace. I forced him closer, deeper, my ankles making love to his buttocks, my hands seeking marriage with his flanks. I could imagine the little half-footprints I would leave behind on his back, and I flushed mentally at the thought of how colorful we would both be at the climax of our maddening love dance.

I could feel his excitement all around me, tingling on the surface of my sensitive flesh, penetrating my soul from all angles, preparing me in a most cruel way – too fast, too flurried to think straight. In the end, I never was prepared for him. I was _ready, _always, but never prepared. These were entirely different facets of reason.

My husband damaged all things corrupt and restrictive inside of me; his intentions were plain as he chanted my name repeatedly in the heat of the moment. He stormed me like a siege, rescuing me at the height of a tower where my most unspoken sensations were carefully tucked away. He broke down the doors and ransacked the room where I kept those sensations, startling them into an uproar of terrible delight.

The color of copulation was bright. Blinding to the naked eye, and invisible to the mind. It was appealing in tone, and enchanting in hue to the heart. It was among the soul's most favorite colors, but it never wore down. Each time it resurrected, it was brighter than the last. It built upon itself with every new discovery, adding color and light in infinite amounts until there were none left to add.

I tried to imagine what this color would look like on my own, but I could never see it clearly until we were looking at it together.

Carlisle's eyes reflected this mysterious color as he filled me with the reckless surge of his love, his heat swelling around me like a luscious blanket. My limbs grew soft and weak as he continued to breathlessly test the limits of our pleasure, stretching the sensation as far as he could, prolonging the precious pulse that had become trapped between us.

The paint on his arms and chest looked blurry and beautiful behind my fluttering eyes. His face was close to mine – I felt it, smooth and solid against my cheek as he cradled his neck into mine, nuzzling for nearness. He tilted his head back for me, and I sucked his earlobe gently between my lips, whatever I could do to hold on to our enticing connection.

"I think we've made a beautiful painting," I whispered into his ear.

He shivered and held me tighter, and I knew he agreed.

**-}0{-**

I'd been under the distinct impression that our brief episode of lovemaking would complete our canvas to the point of satisfaction. But just as I had prepared to rise from our acrylic mattress, my husband had cocked his head to the side, staring down at the finished product with a surprisingly critical eye.

I stood up beside him, gathering his discarded white shirt to drape around my shoulders. "What's the matter?" I asked him, tentative to laugh as I tugged on his elbow.

His lips pulled into a soft smile as his eyes darted across the canvas below us. "I was just thinking there is no place in this house appropriate to hang such a piece."

I stifled an irreverent giggle, tracing the faded blue streaks in his arm with my fingers. "You could always hang it in your study."

"That wouldn't be distracting at all," he whispered. Carlisle had never quite perfected the tone of sarcasm.

"Hmm," I mumbled noncommittally as I drew my arms snugly around his bare waist.

"You know what we've forgotten, darling?" he asked me suddenly, his voice rumbling pleasantly against my side.

My eyes popped open to look down at the canvas, wondering what we could have possibly left out of this perfect piece of art. "What?"

"We've yet to name our painting," Carlisle answered simply.

"Oh, you're right." That got me thinking. "Well, let's see…" I mused gleefully as my fingers continued their playful travels across the muscles in his middle.

He was predictably silent while I pretended to think hard about it. I would have accused him of being very unhelpful, but I knew my wandering fingertips were being more so. He purred softly as my hand slipped down his thigh, leaving a perfect pastel rainbow in its wake. "Any ideas yet, love?" I asked him in my most seductive voice.

"None that are particularly appropriate," he admitted in a hoarse murmur against my head.

"You know, sometimes when an artist is unable to name his painting, it means the painting isn't yet complete."

I felt his body tense within my arms. "Hm."

"Do you think ours is?"

"No…" He cocked his head and squinted critically at the canvas. "I don't believe it's quite finished yet."

With a tempting step forward, I set my foot delicately on the edge of the painting, getting my toes wet. "Should we put ourselves back into it?"

The burning gleam in his eyes told me he approved.

**-}0{-**

It was hard to believe we'd started painting at the break of dawn. It seemed no more than a flash before our eyes when the windows were suddenly bursting with the silky blues and greens of twilight.

Shameless I was to say, the dining room floor was more colorful than the wallpaper by the end of the day. Not only had we soiled several white garments, but a few flawless white pillowcases were no longer so flawless.

The room was dusky and content, finally quiet enough to hear the crickets outside, singing whimsically for the night. Twelve low, lazy candles decorated the floor around me where I sat perched on a single pillow before a much smaller canvas. Needless to say, this one was an independent project.

I kept the frame propped against the wall while I worked, every so often glancing back to the larger, wilder painting where it lay drying on the floor, finally free of our imposing weight.

My husband stretched out on the floor, impressively still beside me. His head was tucked against my hip, sharing the pillow I used though there were plenty scattered about the floor, all equally as colorful.

I had insisted on covering myself with his forgotten shirt, no matter how many times he insisted it was not necessary. Just to tease me, he had then taken my speckled sundress and used it to cover his hips. Though I was tempted to reach back and pull it away, I resisted by immersing myself in the painting before me. While this piece was more serious, and certainly more planned than the previous, its theme was surprisingly similar. But I doubted anyone else would be wise enough to pick it out.

The painting I had been inspired to create after the completion of our joint effort in Abstract Expressionism left much less to the imagination. In this painting, I had carefully but discreetly constructed two figures, distinct only to the eye who searched for distinction. They were of conflicting colors – the male in cool blues, and the female in warm oranges and yellows. I was loose with my brushstrokes, more uninhibited and less restrictive. What resulted was gloriously confusing and impeccably expressive of what it represented.

But again, I was doubtful that anyone would be able to tell precisely _what _that representation was…

Carlisle shifted against me, the soft strands of his hair tickling my bottom as he moved closer. One of his arms reached behind his head as the other stretched lethargically across the floor. His hand moved over to gently cup my knee, his breath warm and heavy against my lower back as he raised his head slightly to see my work.

"What's this?" he finally asked from behind me, his voice beautifully groggy.

"It's called a pendant. Artists sometimes become inspired by one of their works and it leads them to make a new painting – a counterpart to the first. If I were exhibiting these pieces in a gallery, I would display them beside each other."

"Oh," he sighed, his voice betraying him with hints of deeper interest. "What is it meant to depict?"

_Clever wording._

I smirked out of his view as I dipped my brush into the water-filled wine glass.

"Well, like the other, it's abstract," I explained, pointing back to the larger canvas behind us. "The viewer can take from it whatever he wishes to see."

"Hmm."

I was quiet, painting a bit more suggestively, wondering if Carlisle was clever enough to follow the suggestion of my lines as I embellished the contours of his body in blue. I dragged the paintbrush slowly across the perfect curve of his painted back, showing just how familiar I was with every line and angle of his body.

My brush stopped moving as his breath hitched lightly behind me. I felt it on my shoulder, warm and succinct, the moment he realized...

"Is it us?"

I still can't believe that he knew.

"I don't know," I murmured mysteriously, turning my face to catch his eye. "Is it?"

Carlisle's loving eyes darkened, and I knew he had seen my art for what it truly was.

* * *

_**A/N: **__Thank you for reading! Nothing would make me happier than to hear your thoughts before you leave. :)_

_Mackenzie_


	5. Black

**Inspired by Black**

**Medium: Shadows on Memories**

* * *

_December 1923_

~_Carlisle_

It was mid-December when we hit a familiar little bout of mutual depression. It may have been the weather, or maybe it was just the low point before the high of the holidays that buried our light for a few days. No matter how deep we were buried, we always resurfaced together, changed for the better from the effects of our profound melancholy.

My wife had always enjoyed watching the snow from the windows of every room in the house. She insisted that every night of the month we watch the snow fall from a different window. (Having more expansive floor plans was a must to ensure that this was at all possible.) And so, throughout the house, there were chairs and sofas pressed against inconvenient walls in order to accommodate her wishes.

It was, of course, somewhat awkward when we ventured to watch the snow fall from the tiny window in the bathroom or the slim colored glass window in the front door. Esme never used discomfort as an excuse to skip one window in favor of another. She somehow kept me from wandering when we had to watch the snow fall from those small, inconvenient windows. I suppose it was the unpredictable stream of occasional kisses that encouraged me to stay by her side, even when I would begin to see snow falling with my eyes tightly closed.

After several years of warming up to the strange ritual, there came a time when I was happy to indulge her in her eccentric little endeavors, often finding them just as intriguing as she did. I logged everything she did in my journal, recalling all of her plans and whether they had been successful or not when carried out.

But half-way through the month of December, we found our lull. It was a weekday, of course. A Wednesday to be exact, and I had been scheduled to perform several surgeries that night. Little did I know, the snow had booked other plans for me.

Esme would normally not have been shy about showing her delight in hearing such news, but tonight she accepted me back into the house with quiet grace and a dim smile on her lush ruby lips. Her hands brushed the snow from my coat before she hung it back in the closet and tugged the scarf from around my neck.

"It looks as though you'll be stuck at home for a while."

She had whispered the words, which I'd found rather curious. There was no one in this house save for us, and Edward would surely be hearing our words either way. He had politely tucked himself away in the cellar, where he had fashioned an alluring study of his own to keep. He was partial to the catacombs, where I was more fond of naturally lit and spacious rooms. I could hear his consenting rumble of a laugh from where I stood in the hall, for some reason still staring longingly out the window at the falling snow.

It was something I grown to accept over many years; part of me would always want to be helping humans in a hospital.

Esme's slightly sad smile said so much as she turned my face away from the window with the palm of her hand. She planted an encouraging kiss on my chin and asked me to follow her.

I was not surprised that she had led me to my haven. Her hands looked particularly appealing as she pressed them firmly to the heavy wooden door, pushing it closed with a hard, low echo. I waited for her to say something, but she simply took my wrist and guided me to sit before the fire with her on the floor.

There was a blanket behind her, laying on the couch. I thought she would reach for it to draw around her shoulders, but she never did. She reached instead for the basket of old newspapers by the ash brushes and set it between us. I watched as she tore through several pages and crumpled them neatly before tossing them into the fire. The flames devoured the papery meal, bursting into well-fed yellow flames.

After a moment of agreeable silence had passed, Esme began to talk.

Her voice had an unsettling gentleness about it as she asked me seemingly harmless questions. I answered each faithfully, as they concerned little parts of my history she had yet to learn. What did London look like in the wintertime in 1650, she wondered. What feelings did a Venetian sunset evoke in a man like me? To this day, which visits did I most treasure, and which did I most regret?

She took my answers with soft eyes, curling her fingers through her hair with one hand while she addressed the flames of the fire with her other. But I knew Esme too well to believe that this was all she wanted to know. I could see that there were more unanswered questions brewing like a distant golden storm in her captivating eyes.

And as I suspected, Esme was wise enough to know that she could hide nothing from me. There came a tense point in our casual conversation where I cocked my head toward the fire and let her see the hesitant permission in my eyes. I was inviting her to pry. I should have known what I was asking by doing this…

Her lovely lips parted and she resumed her gentle speech; this time she did not mask the tone of subtle darkness that nested her words. She wanted to know things about me – dark things about my past – things I did not necessarily desire to reveal at first. Until that one unexpected December night, there were so few things I had ever said of those blackened centuries before I'd found Edward.

I did not understand why Esme would _want_ to hear about my solitude. I was bold enough to question it of her several times before I had considered giving in. At first, I worked relentlessly against it; I had told her it would upset her.

"I know," she replied, her eyes somehow pooling with longing. I was surprised by this, and I imagine the shock was plain on my face. "I know it will upset me, darling. But I feel the need to know everything about you... even the parts I may not want to hear."

It was then that I caved.

I had always wanted to give everything of myself to Esme, far before we were even married. Yet a part of me still harbored an instinctual need to hide from her. I knew it was wrong, but instead of acknowledging it as a problem to be fixed, I had ignored it in the hopes that it would make no difference to the way she felt about me, or to the way I felt about myself.

To see that Esme had finally reached a point where she could no longer bear my silence on the matter made me cringe with both relief and regret. She must have known I would find it emotional. She seemed well prepared for the moment when my head came to rest upon her shoulder and the dry sobs tangled in my throat.

She held me closer, her fingers weaving slowly through my hair. Her fingers were small, patient, divine.

Into her ear I whispered, "I was alone for so long, Esme."

She knew this, but still I had to say it. I had to declare it. I had to possess it.

I swore I could feel the pang in her heart carry over into mine, like an electrical pulse. It was a vaguely wonderful sensation, albeit one that made me wish to cry harder.

Esme seemed to be encouraging this.

At the time, I still did not understand why.

There were so many facets to this sharing of emotions I still did not understand. But I savored this breed of confusion, as a man with many questions should. I longed to ask Esme for all of the answers, but I knew she would force me to find them on my own. She would help me, of course, in any way she could. But this was a discovery she would want me to make for myself.

"You cannot imagine how desperately I craved company," I confessed while she held me, my lips touching the engravings of my own teeth on her throat. "There were times when I wanted it more than I wanted blood."

"What did you want, Carlisle?" she asked me. I blinked in confusion, but her stillness made me understand. Her language was cryptic, but she was begging for something deeper. I read her intonation, and the way her fingers flickered over the back of my neck... and somehow I knew what she was truly asking.

"I wanted someone..." I lowered my voice into the whisper of a secretive child. "Someone to care for me."

Esme's hand cradled the back of my head and brought me closer. She was firmer with her touch then, and I knew this was her way of demonstrating the extent of _her _care for me. Her touch was an illustration of that intensive care – the care _she_ was capable of showing me. But she had not needed to embellish it by any firmer touch. I knew quite well already how much Esme cared for me.

I knew the fierceness my wife possessed in the realm of caring for others. She was not shy about outward expressions of affection, and I loved her for this. She was the ideal balance for my more quiet, reserved nature. But to hear and feel her reassurance of this fact was in no way trivial to me. In fact, I often forgot just how much I may have _needed _to hear it and feel it, over and over again.

"You _still_ want this." She said it without a question in her voice, which I found remarkably strange. I lifted my face to look at her, and saw her eyes sparkling with wonder.

My lips parted to answer her, but my reply lingered unspoken, my tongue limp with uncertainty.

I murmured a delicate 'no' before her notorious, deeper meaning had the chance to sink in. Her eyebrow arched quizzically in an elegant challenge to my impulsive response.

Without a further thought, I changed my answer.

"Yes, I still want it," I whispered, my voice whole again.

Her fingers crept up the column of my throat, gently encouraging my head to tilt to one side. "Do I give you what you want, Carlisle?" She was whispering, too, now.

"Yes," I answered faithfully.

"What else did you want," she asked, almost tenderly, "when you were alone?"

These words arrived faster, surer upon my lips. "I wanted someone to love me."

This, I knew, was the answer she had been searching for; this was the fruit of her spontaneous inquisition.

"Do I love you?" Her tone was begging, but her eyes were like steel.

My eyes closed as she drew her touch down my cheek, with her lovely artistic fingers.

"Yes..." I replied.

Her voice was shaking. "Open your eyes, and tell me."

And so I tried again. "Yes." My eyes opened to her, full and unafraid to show her the darkness inside. "You love me."

She was glowing – her gaze alight with beauty, brilliance, confidence. I wanted to look deeper into her eyes, but she was the first to turn away.

"How do you know that I love you?" Her timbre was sure and certain, but her face was fresh with awe. Tilting my head in consideration, I answered her intriguing question with a tragically inadequate list.

"Your eyes," I whispered, taking lifting her chin with one finger. "Your touch..." I took her hand in mine and laced our fingers securely. And then her eyes came back to me, too open, too deep to be real. I lost my words. "Your..."

Deciding I hadn't the energy to continue, I lazily skirted the bow of her bottom lip with the knuckle of my smallest finger – a silent proposal for what she knew we both sought. Carefully, I cupped her chin between both my hands and let my lips linger until she initiated the kiss.

God was exceedingly kind to me. I was reminded of this every time our mouths found communion with one another. My wife was a blessing for both my spirit and my lips. She was like warm honey as I drank from her – smooth, sweet, and never-ending. She offered her love, but more than this, she offered her soul.

Her tongue crept into my mouth, teasing the soft center of my tongue until she roused the venom from me. She said nothing – not even a sound – but the twirl of her tongue said everything. She composed silent songs of pleasure inside of me, the heat of a seductive baptism between our linked lips.

At least one of us had a heartbeat again, and that was when we were bound to lose ourselves. I felt her hand stiffen around my shoulder, and that was the inadequate warning she offered me before breaking away.

"Everything..." I whimpered, aching for more of her kiss. The word was a forgotten piece. It had meaning a minute ago, but it meant so little when I'd finally spoken it. This was a beautiful tragedy. My word had been molested by our tangling tongues.

"Tell me more," she murmured breathlessly, bringing the tip of her finger to my bottom lip in a beckoning gesture, as if to coax the words straight from me.

She did just that.

I was a fountain of feverish words for her. "You hear me even when I cannot speak. You listen to me when no one else will listen. You trust me enough to let me see your soul..."

My eyes drifted shut again, so content I had no desire to see anything. Only to feel.

"Do you trust _me_, Carlisle?" Her breath caught in her throat. My fervor had infected her voice. "Eyes open," she reminded softly.

I obediently neglected my slumber and stared into her face.

"Yes."

Her head tilted and her eyes sparkled. She was asking for the complete answer, the full truth.

"Yes, I trust you," I added with quiet conviction. My voice was ragged and her breath began to tighten with anticipation.

"Then tell me everything."

I had not noticed my lips were trembling until Esme had placed her hand against my jaw in an offer of gentle support.

"I was always hiding," I began blindly, wondering how I could speak of something I had never spoken about before. "I never showed myself to the rest of the world... It was so dark..."

My heart hurt already, just revisiting the memories.

"You never told me what happened in the cave," she reminded me, and gentle though she was, I was momentarily furious with her for the pain she had inflicted on me just by her words.

"I don't want to."

"I need to hear it, Carlisle," she insisted, in an infuriatingly calming voice. Her divine fingers did something very unexpected, crawling under my collar and plucking the first button free. I wanted to shoo her hand away, but the strangeness of her gesture perplexed me, bringing with it a loving stab to my solar plexus.

She licked her lip and undid the second button. "I need to hear it," she repeated in a lush whisper.

And I was my own narrator.

"I was cold," I whispered succinctly. "It frightened me that I was always so cold. No matter how fierce a fire I built, it could never warm me." I looked to the dying fire beside us, my eyes lost in the seductive embers where they glistened like glowing studs of ruby among the coals.

Esme stretched my collar as I fell silent again, her finger idly twisting the third button loose. Somehow, through opening my collar she had opened my heart.

"I don't remember thinking of much," I murmured, cringing at the recollection of my first days as an immortal. "At first I was torn by the memories of my father – the only human I could recall with any clarity. But he was just a shadow in the dusk. I wanted him back only to have _someone..._ But I know that he would have run away from me."

I stopped then, disbelief weighing in my chest that I had allowed this intimate revelation to my wife. The release was addicting, cleansing. I wanted to reveal more.

"He called me ungrateful, Esme," I whispered to the embers.

Her grip on my shirt tightened, so fierce for such a small hand.

"He was a wicked man for saying that to you."

I argued her softly, "No, he was a very holy man."

I looked to her, and she was livid, her beauty only magnified by the anger that shone in her eyes. "He had a black soul," she declared.

My heart constricted painfully. "No man's soul could ever be black."

Esme sighed, appearing both exhausted and enchanted at once. Her expressions were artistically impossible, yet they only made her more beautiful in my eyes.

"You see the good in everyone, Carlisle." Her wandering fingers at last settled upon my heart, and every iota of warmth in the room around us rushed to gather there, huddling beneath her sizzling fingertips.

"I must," I answered honestly, tucking my hand around hers for fear of losing the warmth. "It is not a choice. I must see the good where God grants me the gift to see it."

Her eyes widened even further, the wonder ingrained into every fleck in her amber iris.

"I want to learn to see the way you do," she murmured, her voice low and throaty.

"You already do," I responded, my voice fighting to conquer her depth.

"Then help me to clear the dust from my eyes," she pleaded. Her lashes fluttered softly, her glassy eyes reflecting the burgundy residue of the fire behind me.

To her forehead, I brought a single finger, gathering an errant curl of caramel silk to place behind her ear. "Your eyes are as clear as they can be, my love."

Her chin trembled as our gazes glistened against each other, and in an instant the words spilled from her lips. "I love you."

We said it when there was nothing left to say. It was our surrender to the war, our plea for mercy when we were lost in the rest of the world. We had a world to ourselves here, and if need be, we never had to leave it behind.

With her consent, I surged forward and stole a kiss from her loving lips. I could feel the burn of her words lingering on my skin as she kissed me hungrily back. My tongue dove eagerly into her awaiting mouth, made slick by her venom.

"I love you," I whispered back, and to an unfamiliar ear it would sound like a breathless muttering. But if they only listened closely enough, they would know that I was truly giving her my permission.

Sometimes we did not know where to begin from that initiative "I love you." Sometimes we lingered, breathless and slightly confused as we tried to find a transition from the preparatory stream of kisses to the intimate locking of souls and bodies that we desired to follow. Eventually, one of our hands would find its way to a line of buttons. One of those buttons would come loose, and one of us would strengthen the kiss.

Sometimes it was an easy chain of events. Other times, it was not.

This was one of those times when it was not so easy.

I had given her my permission, in the husk of my tone, in the pressure of my lips... Yet Esme refused to bring her faithful hand to the buttons she had already begun to undo.

Boldly, I took her hand in mine and led her back to the unfinished site. She pulled from the kiss to glance up at me, her eyes asking once more the burning question if now was the time. I told her without words, without breath, that it was.

And by her gentle hands I was freed.

The firelight touched my skin, more shyly than my wife did, but it was encouraging nonetheless. I felt the echo of the sensuous orange flames like patient fingers, gliding across my shoulders and around my back. They were so warm, and Esme's hands were warmer from the heated kiss of the fire beside us.

The glow of the fire danced upon us as we disrobed, slowly, patiently, without rushing. We made an effort to savor the art of undressing, finding more time taken to be a kind catalyst for the fervor of our passion.

I was submissive in my wife's capable hands. Capable they were, in so many different ways than mine. I had taken each of her five fingers in turn and named them for their qualities: The thumb was her gentle strength, the index her artistry, the middle her beauty, the ring her devotion, and the smallest of all was her care, her unsuspecting love and affection for everything she came across.

I kissed each as I reminded her of the names, each one a whisper on my tongue that softened with every touch. I wanted to be under the command of these fingers, always and forever, but especially tonight. The sharing of secrets had rendered me deliciously vulnerable, and I needed to withdraw my power for this evening alone. My wife understood this, without a word from me. She could see it, I suspect, in the way I held myself, purposefully keeping myself from reaching full height as I sat across from her. I lowered my head to the level of her own, not so our eyes could meet, but so that I would not have to feel dominant before her. I wanted her to dominate me.

It was strange handing this power to Esme, as she was so often reluctant to take the dominant role in any relationship. Most especially in ours, she had always granted me any power she had acquired, asking that I choose how to best put it to use. Over time, she learned that her decisions could hold as much if not more value than my own. After years of slowly adjusting to the dynamics of our unique marriage, we settled at last for equal regards. Power was never something to be tossed around between us. We simply shared it, until one of us decided we did not wish to bear the weight of it for a while. And for that while, however long it lasted, the other gladly took the power and kept it for the night.

Esme smiled softly at me as she slipped her caring fingers along the sides of my hips. The pressure of her touch inspired a heady warmth to fill my loins, and I bowed my head further, at last finding a final resting place upon her satin shoulder.

She finished with the last remaining layers, shedding our false cover of clothing to unveil the truth of our bareness beneath. Always, I was moved by the feeling of holding no barrier between our bodies. I was never ashamed, even in the most glaring light before my Esme's faithful gaze. She saw only beauty in me, as I saw only beauty in her.

Sensing my reclusion, Esme rose from the carpet to tug the blanket from the couch. She draped the dark layer around her waist, keeping it close with her hands... those hands I needed to touch me.

Gently, I took both her hands in mine, coaxing strength, artistry, beauty, devotion, and finally care from their grip on the fabric. Esme surrendered her fingers, and the blanket slid down but did not leave her. It could not bear to leave her, and I did not blame it. We could easily share her, however.

I placed her hands on my chest, in the very center – neither presumptuous nor discouraging – I always let her choose which direction to travel first. If she chose North, I would sigh in relief, and relax as she blessed my shoulders and cradled my head. If she chose South, I would stiffen in excitement, and the tension would bring me to a brink well before her fingers found the fount of my love for her.

I trusted whichever direction my wife chose would be the right one for us both.

Her eyes were warmer than the flames from the fire as she stared me into the ground. My head found its nesting place in the rug beneath us as her hands kneaded their way inward to converge at my navel.

So she had chosen South.

I shuddered as I felt the gentle suggestion of artistry meet with my manhood. As I had expected, each of her slender sisters followed. Beauty with seduction, devotion with assuredness, care with tenderness, and strength with firmness. I was encased by her fingers, powerless and willing within her grasp. Each of her fingers offered a unique facet to her being, and all of them together gave me the precise balance of pressure and love that I needed to fulfill her longings.

I felt the fascination in each of her fingers, and the swell in my pride, however brief, had spurred the swell of my flesh in response. She was concentrated when I looked to her, and the steadfast devotion in her shimmering gaze struck straight to my core. I was motionless as she stroked me, savoring the feel of each finger in their given order. She was slow, gentle, patient as I so often was with her. Somehow she knew I had needed this, though I found it difficult to say out loud.

"Do not hold back, darling," she whispered from above, her free fingers slithering lovingly over my arm to relieve the tension. Obediently, my muscles collapsed into slumber.

I whimpered as I felt the listless trickle of her long caramel tresses along my thigh. Her approach was sly at best before her fingers subtly tightened around me, and it was no longer a secret what was coming next.

A single warm kiss was her first unassuming gift. Her lips were soft and open, suggestive of deepening that kiss, elaborating it from its chaste origins into something far richer. I barely felt the tiny pearls of her teeth as she swallowed me slowly, her throat drawing forth an indulgent purr to incise the sensation. Her breath warmed my untouched skin as she allowed her tongue to stroke me safely within the cave of her wet mouth. She coated me with her venom, taking her time to anoint every inch of me. I surrendered myself to the sensual baptism, my thoughts a dull flurry of nothing but the feeling of being consumed by her.

My wife was aware, always knowing when the treatment became testing. The tension had returned, confined now to the heated pressure point she had doused from my lap. I would need her in moments, but she was ready to offer me what I would need.

She gently released me from the clutch of her loving lips, the sensation of her slipping away almost serving to trigger my undoing. She fitted her small, slender body between my legs and slid her hands from my thighs to my knees, drawing me closer. Above me she hovered, like my own intimate angel – she was privy to my dreams as her gaze wrestled relentlessly with mine, shunning every worry and summoning every secret. I was an open book beneath her, and she was reading my story in a thousand languages, all without taking a single peek between the pages.

Her lips opened lightly as her instincts directed her lovingly to the hearth of my hips. She gasped as we touched, such a familiar sound. Even her breath was recognizable to me from the moment she released it. She opened for me a second time, but this time both her hands were free to love me in other ways, taking their places along the East and West of my shuddering shoulders. Her lips were free to love me in the North as she joined us in the South. This time, she pulled me deeper; this time she buried all of me, and her venom warmed around me with its inviting sting.

I shivered as she held me tighter – in the East, and the West, and the South...

She whispered something unholy against my chin before tightening her hold in the North as well. I held her closer, my hands cemented around her supple waist. I felt every flutter inside of her, every erogenous reaction shivering up her sides as she moved against me. Our gasping breaths complemented one another beautifully, composing the most intoxicating music which could be heard by none but us.

Esme took my head in her hands, at last breaking our continuous kiss to intercede with the miracle of our locked gazes. My eyes were terrible, half-lidded and hazy, unprepared to receive her beautiful buds of glossy black. Esme was patient with me, murmuring my name as she summoned my strength with the stroke of her thumb across my jaw.

I watched, rapt, as she stirred her hips into mine, beginning to lose patience with the pace she had set. It was there when I lost myself, under the spell cast by her last merciless round of clutch after clutch, her intention to bring me my bliss.

I felt Esme's hands become lost in my hair, weaving frantically, her shallow breaths sweet with anticipation. With a melodious gasp, she let herself fall back against my legs, opening to me the true depths of her passage, inviting me to travel deeper. I pulsed within her, finally reaching the tough, silken cradle that protected her soul. I was able to slip past it, just the tiniest bit before I allowed my gathered passion to run hard and swift into her womb.

I was quiet as my climax took me, voicing my pleasure by the roughness of my breath, and the faintest of whimpers as she helped me to draw out the intercession. I panted heavily along with her, watching the slack beauty of her expression as I filled her with the searing proof of my love.

At her bidding, I rose from the carpet, the cover she had placed protectively around our joined hips slipping away to reveal the evidence of our union to the fire, our only witness. I now faced her fully as she writhed in my lap, holding her tightly as the waves of my pleasure slowly shuddered away. She had yet to feel the utter strength of these waves, but with her permission I would share them with her.

I found her eyes, dark and steady. She stared back at me bravely, her face so close to mine… then subtly she lowered, asking me now to bear the weight of the power that was faithfully passed between us. I felt my chest growing stronger as she surrendered, and with her unspoken consent, I dipped her down beneath me, reversing our positions in a swift shift of that power.

I put the resurrected rush of my strength to good use, striking her tenderly, beat by beat until she came, crying like an assaulted siren, her voice like the warmest fantasy, filling me with unforgivable masculine pride. I was desperate but savoring, as if this were our last night together...as if I would never touch her again.

I held her steady as her slight body convulsed beneath me, watching intently over her as she sputtered half-formed syllables that somehow sounded out my name in gorgeous fragments. Her long eyelashes fluttered fiercely as if caught in the throes of a feverish dream. As she savored her pleasure, I endured the luxury of her endless pulsing from within. Her venom sweetened, thickened around me in a silky lather until she lay utterly spent in my arms. I gathered her resting form up to hold her against my chest, placing appreciative kisses around the crown of her head.

She shivered for so long after we made love. Sometimes I envied her, that as a woman she was able to savor the effects of our union for a fair bit longer than I. But Esme deserved to endure those feelings where I could not; my Lord, she deserved to feel them _forever_ and never be released. Simply watching her savor the aftermath of our passion was just as pleasurable for me.

We were silent for hours after that thrashing moment, the intimacy of our union lingering and thick upon the air. The flames of the fire settled, both in the hearth and in our hearts. We refused to abandon each other, locking ourselves in a tightly bound embrace, our breath heavy but soft in the raven-dark room. I did not dare move a muscle for fear that the spell would be broken, but Esme's fingers were notorious as they caressed every inch of my back. _Strength, artistry, beauty, devotion, care..._

I felt her love for me with each tender pass of her hand, the promise of eternity warm in the soft center of her palm as she painted my skin. There was nothing I could compare to this feeling without considering the comparison sacrilege. I felt incomprehensibly loved, appreciated, and most of all _needed_ here in her arms. It was not so inconceivable that I could be loved so ardently by one woman, because in my heart I knew that I loved her just as terribly.

We committed the most beautiful crime in our love for each other. Never had I felt guilty for loving Esme, even in the days when I had misinterpreted fear for guilt – it had never truly tainted my heart. Here, we were utterly unstained and pure. When we were one, we shared a new soul together, a soul that had unquestionably existed since the beginning of time.

I was not afraid to doubt the rules and strains of dimension while locked in my wife's arms. If I were to abandon my beliefs in all things unfeasible, I would have lost grips on her love long ago. Because Esme's love for me was unfeasible, as much as the notion that our love could infuse to create something too powerful to know with the senses. It was beyond time and dimension, beyond our comprehension. In the blackest part of my being, it was the brightest light. And Esme lovingly blinded me every day, chasing away the shadows in my soul.

* * *

_**A/N: **__In this particular vignette I wanted to focus on how Esme would go about coaxing more out of Carlisle with regards to his sensitive past. I imagine this scene would take place a few years after they are married, as they slowly adjust to what they are each comfortable with revealing to the other. It takes a little tender enforcement on Esme's part to encourage Carlisle to share some of his darker secrets even after they have been intimate for a long while. I also wanted to emphasize Carlisle's appreciation for those times when Esme is able to take the dominant role in their relationship - that she is just as capable of taking care of him as he is with her. _

_Thank you for reading. I am always interested in hearing what you think. _

_Mackenzie_


	6. Blue

**Inspired by Blue**

**Medium: Raindrops on Window Panes**

* * *

_April 1923_

_~Esme_

If there is one thing I cannot stand to see, it is Carlisle in pain.

My husband is not a delicate man by any means, but there are so many facets to his person, so many pieces that make up the complicated man that he is; and some of these pieces, I must confess, are fragile.

Carlisle's heart is a glorious paradox, a conflict of strength and sympathy. He is like stone when it comes to control, yet he is softer than rose petals when it comes to compassion. A smart wife must always be aware of her husband's weaknesses, and I was no fool in my marriage. From the very beginning I knew Carlisle possessed many flaws. I must smile when I realize I would not have married him otherwise.

The quality I had found most appealing in Carlisle had always been his compassion. Yet this very quality is one complex enough to draw wars before his path. It was sometime after my marriage to him when I truly began to realize how dangerous such reckless compassion could be. The strength of his heart often made him vulnerable; his fierce sympathy for others became a vice that evil men could use against him. I was not blind to these defects, nor was I ignorant of the ways in which they agitated his everyday life.

For a man with such strength of character and moral devotion, Carlisle was surprisingly susceptible to the aspersions of those who surrounded him. Not many could see by first glance that he was a constant victim, subject to great dislike from both vampires and humans either out of envy, intimidation, or simply out of fear. He had drawn himself away from society because of it. I was ultimately the one who had brought him into the light, to a place where he would no longer have to fear solitude, where his pain would fade away under the sunlight of true love.

But pain was not something I could magically steal from his life. To this day we both suffer great pains. We are sensitive to it, always longing to rid ourselves of it, our hearts bound by an almost animalistic devotion to the ongoing quest. We know each other so closely, that we can recognize the signs sometimes before they appear.

Carlisle will say things, sometimes – certain things that when I hear him say them, I immediately jolt into a state of protectiveness. Any mention of his history with his father, his past of neglect and solitude, or his painful transformation will bring about this change in me.

Then there are smaller things – things that might sound perfectly insignificant to anyone but me – but when I hear him say them, I must be at his side or ache with incurable distress for his wellbeing. He might simply say to someone, "Don't" – a soft, half-whispered defense. He tries to protect himself with this one word. No harm can come to him, but my heart never seems to learn this. He might ask for help, or speak lightly of pain, and I will spring to my feet from wherever I am and I will run to him. I will find him and mend whatever ails him. To allow him the slightest bit of suffering is unacceptable.

He claims that this is a very maternal quality of mine.

Having never known his mother, I believe Carlisle regards this aspect of my nature as something of a mystery. I've always noticed this about him – this glimmer of need that appears in his eyes, the utter contentment that follows when I coddle him or care for him in entirely unnecessary ways. He knows I cannot help myself, or else I would be resisting my nature.

He claims to love everything about me, but most especially he loves my "unfathomable care" for everything around me.

This was not something he had told me through an elaborate speech. This was something he had chosen instead to write to me, his silent words penned in private blue script for my eyes alone. I still kept the letters in which he had confessed these things to me. His longings and desires had appeared to be very valiant and genteel when written in thick ink on parchment. It was only months after I had married Carlisle when his written confessions appeared to be something quite different.

Lord in heaven, these were not mere longings, these were the basest _passions _of a man whose heart had been repressed, and whose soul had been beaten for centuries. He had tried to explain to me in so many ways how he saw me through his eyes, but those tragic, heroic words he used were senseless to me. I was so convinced that this kind of love – the kind Carlisle claimed to feel for _me_ – did not exist.

His words were most passionate, oddly enough, in one of his notes. A note in which he confessed his love for my motherly qualities. Carlisle had written countless entries and letters filled with lavishly descriptive prose that praised my beauty, but none had touched me as deeply or as violently as this one had.

It showed signs of having been written more hastily than the others, and it had been wrinkled and smoothed many times by his strong hands. It was unpolished and raw, unlike the other notes which were crafted carefully from start to finish. In this note, Carlisle's pen had been running low on ink, and his heart running low on restraint. Each word had been written with an implied force. He had been forward in his confessions, unrelentingly forthright and viciously honest. His tender words held a brutality about them that I had never imagined coming from my saint-like doctor. The result was a savagely seductive piece indeed, one that did cruel and unforgivable things to my fledgling heart.

_Dearest Esme, _

_I know that you are unaware of my feelings for you at the present time. I regret to say that I am not writing you this note to tell you my feelings, nor do I believe this note will ever know the pleasant cradle of your own two hands (a tragedy I fear it shares in common with me). But with the written word, I can confess my feelings to you, whether you will know the truth one day or not. I am wild with the need to tell you just what you have done to my heart._

_You are a kind woman, Esme. Many men would claim so, and one would be a fool to deny it. But this adjective alone does not do you proper justice. In fact _– _and you must forgive me for this, my dear _–_ I believe the word itself is an insult to you. Because, my sweet Esme, you are so much more than simply 'kind.' You are incomprehensibly kind. You are mercilessly kind. You are, my dear, even sinfully kind. Sinfully, because your kindness has brought me many terrors in the way of temptation, and for these I cannot forgive you _–_ nor do I wish to._

_In your innocence, I imagine you must wonder what I mean by this. How can a woman's kindness tempt a man? You would, perhaps, be shocked to know the ways, my darling. In any other context, I would not dream of revealing these ways to you. However, in this letter _– _because your hands will never hold it _– _I am free to tell you the precise ways in which you have tempted me by your kindness. _

_Something you must know about me, Esme, is that I am quite timid when it comes to the female species. To meet with a woman, to 'know' a woman, would be unthinkable for me. Yet I see you, and I must wonder endlessly what a woman's love would be like. I must wonder how you would receive me _–_ in so many ways, my love._

_To watch you care for the things of this world is an indecent practice for me. You touch the petals of a flower in the garden, coax it to bloom, murmur to it as if it will respond. You whisper to your curtains as you draw them back to let in the sunlight. Do not think I cannot hear you, my darling. You speak to the clouds, too, asking them whether or not they will bring rain today . . ._

_You stroke a broken door handle when you accidentally break it loose from its knob. Like a devoted mother, you work for minutes to fix it with your tender hands. Your eyes furrow with exquisite pity as you try to secure it. You lean down closer, and I am concerned that you have also kissed it. Oh, Esme, how loving must you be? _

_You are so perplexing to me. You show love for the strangest things _– _inanimate things _– _things that boast only minimal life or sometimes no life at all. Am I so dead that you must not count me as a target for your love as well, Esme? Must you ignore me so long as the flowers are in bloom, or the curtains drawn, or the clouds rolling in through the sky? You have taken the time to touch and talk to so many things. Do I ask too much in begging you to touch and talk to me? _

_Everything you do is utterly innocent. And yet I watch you like a malicious lord watches his concubine. With greedy eyes and a depraved heart, I hunger for your care. I envy the flower whose petals you caress, just as I envy the drapes whose fabric you clutch. Do you see now, how your kindness and care for everything around you is torture for me?_

_I wish to be bathed in your unfathomable care, Esme. Everything about you is unfathomable to me. If I were human, my heart would gallop like a wild horse in your presence. If I were human, my body would be consumed by sweet fire when you walked beside me. But I am not a human; I am a vampire. I am an undead soul who longs to be linked with another. Yet you have the power to turn my frozen flesh supple. You have the power to heat my chronic chill. You have the power to awaken my dead heart in the still hours of night. One thought of you and I am a lost man. I am wandering aimlessly, Esme. Can you not see how I have no place to call my home, unless that home is you?_

_There is so much more that I long to say to you, Esme, but my ink is failing fast. This is a terrible excuse, but I digress. _

_Softly put, I love you, my dear. I have loved you since the beginning of time, and long before. If you would be so kind to let me, I would continue to love you until the end of time and long thereafter. _

_All I need is your permission. Grant me one good word and I will fulfill this promise in the name of my God and in your name alone. If you were to read this letter, would you consider my offer and submit your heart to me? If your eyes were to drink in my coarse and honest words, would you shudder in shame for me? Or would you simply close your eyes, fold this piece of paper, and let the fire consume my confessions as though you had never seen them? _

_I fear I will never, ever know._

I had finished reading the letter with a tearful sigh, swept off my feet by an identical pair of cursive _C'_s.

He had not written out his full name. Only because, I supposed, his pen had finally run out of ink.

**-}0{-**

I was alone in the house when I heard his footsteps sloshing through the rain. Like a solemn soldier coming home to his wife from a long, dark war. The rain sounded so much more beautiful when he was nearby. Each drop added to the sweet, soothing song of his arrival. What was once droning and dismal was now comforting and hearty. I loved the sound of rain only when _he _was with me.

He was soaking wet from walking through the downpour, without an umbrella, without even caring to draw a hood over his head. His soft blond hair was drenched, twisting along the back of his neck in thick golden curls. The raindrops slipped down his face like tears, accentuating every worried line in his brow and every firm angle of his jaw.

I ran to him, getting rather soaked myself, and we collided several feet away from the safety of the porch. I was burning to kiss him, and the raindrops tried in vain to cool my burning. But I kept my welcome gentle, running my hands up the front of his jacket until I found his neck. There, I kissed him with each of my fingers, tickling my way up to his chin. I cupped his jaw in both my hands, staring into his eyes as he stared into mine. When I saw for certain that he pleaded for a kiss of truth, I gladly gave it to him.

He nudged me a bit as our lips met, so tentatively encouraging that I felt a tremendous pang in my heart. His whimper was lost to the pounding of the rain while I took his head in my hands and promised to soothe his ache.

I knew something was wrong. I could feel it in the way his lips were just barely touching mine though we were flush against each other. His tongue was cool when I tried to touch it. I teased him lovingly, trying to coax out the passion I knew was welling inside of him...but he never released it. He was teetering on the delicious edge of it while we kissed. And we forced a lie, yet we whispered the truth.

The kiss was fragmented, truly a series of premature kisses that never fully bloomed. He would begin to offer more of himself just as I grew shy, and when I finally found my confidence, he would then pull back, self-conscious and overwhelmed by my sudden eagerness. It was a bittersweet battle we fought, but neither of us would presume to call it a battle at all. Perhaps it was more a misunderstanding, a miscommunication. But it was heated and lush, cooled by the rain, and ripe with honesty.

I could not pull away from him once our lips were touching. His arms had slid around my waist, the tough fabric of his jacket rubbing wonderful friction against my flimsy blouse. His chest had pressed firmly into mine, crushing me in his desperation. However hard and strong his body felt against me, there was something about him that still felt so soft, so vulnerable. I could not place why, but Carlisle felt breakable in the rain.

Because I could not break our kiss, I dragged him by his lapels under the protection of the porch, and did not stop until I had slammed against the front door. Carlisle didn't bother to open the door yet, and I assumed he was just as entranced by this strange kiss as I was. He moaned timidly against my mouth and I opened wider, begging his entry. I shuddered as he finally thrust his tongue between my lips, allowing me to taste how sad he truly was.

My fingers were trembling on the back of his neck, twisting into the damp ends of his hair as he moved against me. Somehow I felt as though I were orchestrating the power of his movements through the pressure of my touch. When I dug my fingers more firmly into the nape of his neck, he let his tongue slide a little bit deeper. He stepped a little bit closer. Our bodies were almost attached.

I let my head fall back against the door as he licked a coating of venom from the soft sides of my mouth, his hands holding me tighter around the waist as my taste sweetened from his attentions. We stayed there for a long while, our hearts collecting rainwater, our lungs collecting the essence of the storm surrounding us.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I whispered to his earlobe.

With a soft hum of refute, he shook his head against my shoulder. "Not now."

I clasped his hand in understanding and pulled him through the door with me, out of the rain and into the warm, dark house.

Our ascent of the staircase was just as lethargic, as much a tender struggle as it should have been for two soaked people who refused to take a single step without first touching the lips of the other.

We at last came to the top of the stairs, breathless not from our efforts, but from our growing need. His lips still sliding against mine, Carlisle led me backwards into the bedroom, closing the door behind him though we were entirely alone.

"Will you talk to me...after?" I knew he would, but I begged him to promise me now. My trust for him was pure, but my need to hear him say it was overpowering.

As a reply, he took my hand in his and kissed it slowly, crowning each of my fingers with a delicate touch of his lips. Each feather-light kiss whispered_, 'yes', 'yes', 'yes.'_

"Carlisle..." I murmured his name breathily, knowing well the effect it had on him. A decade's worth of scripted love letters had told me precisely everything I had done to him. I could see it all beneath my half-closed eyes as he kissed every one of my fingers – the swirls of peacock blue ink revealing the depth of his passion for me, word for word. Carlisle had told me so much through his writing...and I knew him so well because of it. I knew that the touch of my fingers on his scars soothed every pain he had ever known, and that hearing me murmur his name was like a warm caress in the pit of his stomach.

Oh, I knew him so well.

"Draw the curtains," he whispered in the dim blue room, his voice thickened by passion, infused with the beauty of his ancient accent.

Closing the curtains would not give us any more seclusion than we already had, but I carried out his order just as urgently, as if it made a difference. Our eyes adjusted instantly to our darkened surroundings; no length of time was needed for us to see each other's faces, to lose ourselves in each other's eyes.

He came forward to kiss me and I drank from him, desperate and trembling. Our clothes were still soaking as we clung to each other, shifting and sticking to our bodies as we discreetly fought free of the fabric.

Carlisle's hand caught in my wet hair, twisting each dripping tendril lovingly around his fingers as he combed through them. My knees buckled slightly as he brought both strong hands up to cradle either side of my head, drawing my face up for what I thought would be a daring, forceful kiss. But the kiss he gave me was no more forceful than if a butterfly had precariously landed on my lip. I whimpered from the ache he had left in his wake, desperately needing to feel more of him.

His eyes were like sensual lanterns in the darkness, falling to appraise my heaving bosom as he parted the sides of my blouse with steady fingers. Only when his fingers at last grazed my bare skin did they begin to tremble, ever so slightly, as he caressed the underside of my breasts in turn. It fascinated me that no matter how capable my husband's hands were in every other situation, they were always quivering with awe when he finally touched me. I saw the guileless gleam of that wonder written in his eyes, and it never ceased to revive a heavy beat in my dead heart.

Without a single sound, his gaze clearly murmured, _"I cannot believe she is here... I cannot believe she is mine, that I am hers, that I may touch her however I please..."_

I wondered if he heard this same prose, weakly recited in my own ardent gaze.

As I lifted my hands to unbutton his collar, his eyes grew tired, worn with the pain of what he had seen, not only throughout the day but throughout his entire life. To Carlisle, any reminder of suffering, loss, and solitude was so intricately intertwined with his own experiences that he could not help but bear the painful weight of those around him when he saw these things happening in the world. I believed his boundless compassion could be a curse as often as it was a gift and a blessing.

He bowed his head low when I freed his chest from the heavy wet cotton, his lungs breathing loosely under the scrutiny of my desire. His skin was deliciously damp beneath the fabric, smooth, and cooler than my own. I generously ran my hands across his back, and along the broad slope of his shoulders, granting him the gift of what little warmth I had to offer.

Eyes closed under my ministrations, his hands drifted down sensually to rest upon his belt. His fingers deftly flicked the clasp loose before he let his trousers slide down his thighs. Whatever coverage remained was soon torn away by my eager hand.

Fully nude, my husband pushed me back to sit against the window while he knelt before me, pinching the toe of my wet stocking between his fingers. His eyes darkened as he worked his free hand slowly up the side of my thigh, clutching the waistband of my stockings beneath my skirt. With a few patient tugs, he peeled the sheer material from my left leg, and then my right.

My skirt, being the very last article of clothing that kept us apart, was now nothing but a nuisance. It took great self-control for neither of us to simply shred it away and carry on. I came terribly close to doing just that, but not before Carlisle's gentle fingers had taken responsibility for the tiny zipper on the side of my hip.

Slowly, carefully, he relieved me of the final fabric barrier.

My bare bottom eased onto the cushion of the window sill, my legs welcoming the light chill of the air as he slid my skirt down and off my dangling feet. Taking one foot between his hands as if it were made of finest china, my husband humbled himself further with a cluster of reverent kisses, settling his lips around the delicate curve of my ankle. I gasped softly as the flutter of his eyelashes tickled the sole of my foot, his tongue touching each of my toes in turn, and returning to dress my heel in his venom.

I leaned back against the window while he continued his patient journey up my leg, my naked back pressed to the cold glass. The raindrops were coming down in a hard, pelting siege behind me, the droning sound like a rough but pleasant lullaby in my ears.

My leg fidgeted restlessly as Carlisle's hand wrapped more firmly around the back of my knee. His fingers stroked the smooth skin of my once injured calf, a reminiscent crispness to his every breath as he lavished each imaginary bruise with the healing heat of his skilled tongue.

"What if you had never been able to walk again, Esme?" He posed a single husky question, one that he had asked me many times before.

I understood at once why he became so reverent when he did this, how he recognized that this one leg had brought us together. In his mind, it symbolized more than just a key to our destiny – it was mysteriously erotic, demanding of his eternal gratitude in every way. It was the reason we were here now, in this bedroom, during a thunderstorm, with only each other for company, while the world carried on without us.

Carlisle's eyes gazed up at me, awaiting my answer to his question. His stare was indeed prepared for the examination at hand; everything from the intensity of his dilated pupils to his studious brows belonged exclusively to a doctor.

A very aroused doctor.

My lips struggled to reply, but I could think of nothing but the drenched desire in his eyes. I could feel nothing but the heat of his hand as he rubbed the back of my aching knee, I could smell nothing but the sweet, stinging scent of his warm, protective presence. His arm swept around my waist before I could answer, rising from his knee to lift me up from my perch on the window. Without another word he carried me into the bathroom and lay my already drying body into the empty tub.

His eyes never left mine as he reached for the faucet, slowly sliding the knob to its warmest setting. The rush of water that suddenly assaulted my feet was still unpleasantly cold, coaxing a startled gasp from my throat. A faint twinkle of apology shone in Carlisle's eye as he stood to his full height and lifted one foot to step into the tub with me.

I sat up to accommodate him as he fit himself comfortably behind my back, his arms caving in around me, pressing me against his chest. The soothing hum of the water filling around us did nothing to mask the excited pattern of our breathing. Every one of his heated breaths beat against the side of my cheek, gathering an artificial blush on my skin.

I sighed softly as the water began to warm around our bodies; it was a slow rise, but a seductive one. My skin tingled in delight as the water at last covered my knees, slipping like silk over and under and between. The sensation was made ever more enticing as my husband's hands slid down my sides, settling protectively around my hips. Pure instinct prompted me to turn my face toward his, but his lips were already prepared to gather mine in a startling kiss.

After a tragically short moment, he broke our lips apart. I whimpered as his mouth descended onto my neck, tilting my head back to allow him more space to do as he pleased. He sucked the skin there, gently at first, then harder as I panted in encouragement. I tucked my hands into his thick blond hair, making careless tangles with my weakening fingers on my way down his neck.

In our frantic bout of desperate kisses, our bodies somehow became tangled. He hovered over me, his legs entwined with my own beneath the water, which was now awfully deep. Concerned that the bathroom might flood, I reached back to relieve the faucet, summoning silence as the rushing water tapered to a lovely, monotonous _drip, drop._

The rain outside had softened, but it still fell steadily against the windows and roof – an ambience suited for our peaceful passion. Carlisle moved forward to touch his lips to my forehead, his arms braced on either side of me, hands firmly gripping the rim of the tub.

"Sometimes...we just need silence." His whisper was soft, his words simple.

My head nodded once, eyes opening as I felt his weight rising away from me. I watched as his arms slipped lazily under the surface of the water, and his eyes closed as he savored the inviting warmth that wrapped around his skin. I was hypnotized by the exquisite dance of muscles in his arms as they swiftly moved to lift his body above me.

Down they went. Dipped in the water, and came up again, quilted in a slippery film of soap suds. I reached out to touch him, each of my hands grasping one arm as I slid the tips of my fingers over his taut, smooth skin. I touched him with the curiosity of a child, as if this were my first time feeling the extraordinary sensation of another's flesh. In a way, it always felt like a first.

His eyes at last opened, greeting mine with a familiar gleam. I blinked once, slowly, granting him permission to cradle me above the surface.

He bowed his blond head, nuzzling my collarbone before his tongue traced a reverent figure eight around my breasts. My enthusiastic gasp inspired him to take one nipple into his mouth, his tongue tenderly tasting the swollen pink flesh.

His throat gave birth to a low, rumbling purr as his lips tugged once, then soothed the ache with a chaste kiss. He lifted his head with the intention of tending to my untouched breast, but I stopped him before he could continue, my need for him too great to bear.

Carlisle's understanding was quick, from the moment my hands grasped the back of his neck in urgency. His hands pressed a firm path from my back to my bottom, lifting me up to the surface once again. He stared at me for a drawn-out moment, and his clear golden gaze fell, harsh and hot between my legs.

His breathing was soft, calm, soothing. Like the water.

His head descended in a final bow, to place a light but loving kiss where it would be received as something much stronger.

My hips rose up from the water, aching for his heavenly heat. He bathed me with his tongue for a few sensuous moments, my mind rendered to nothing but warm white static. The tip of his tongue was more skilled than my paint brush, the beat of his breath against my sensitive flesh enough to send me over the edge without a single touch. I felt the first gentle ripples of my climax singing beneath my belly as he tempted me with his tongue. I whimpered to make myself known, and being the good man that he was, Carlisle released me from his loving torment. He whispered a parting word of promise to the quivering flesh of my inner thigh before he drew himself up, a glorious vision rising from the water.

I watched the tiny droplets as they streamed down his powerful arms, weeping for the perfection of the body they were forced to leave behind. My eyes followed the rivulets as they gathered in the hollow nook of his navel, wandering in a naïve path while _his _gaze was fixed upon me, steady and burning like coal.

I let out an audacious sigh as I felt his fingers dancing suggestively beneath my back, alerting me to the direction he was bound to take. His hands traveled farther down to carry my thighs, setting them apart so they were nestled on either side of him, supported by his strong hips.

And here as I looked up at him from beneath a curtain of sparkling water droplets, my body melted, supple and willing for whatever he wanted. If he wished to take, then I would graciously give. If he wished to give, then I would gladly take.

I could see in his eyes that Carlisle wished for neither alone. He wished for both.

He said my name as he touched me, gently, meeting the swollen vertex of where we must join. He said my name, not in a whisper as he usually said it. His voice was stronger, but not quite firm. He spoke with substance, a generous depth, but not a demand. It was an awakening, a nudge for my complete attention. I responded with a simple parting of my lips, for I knew the darkening of my eyes would be enough.

It wouldn't have mattered if my head had come back down to drown in the water. It wouldn't have, but Carlisle would not let my head come to rest anywhere but in the palms of his hands.

He kept my head above the surface of the water as he filled me patiently, moving with gradual strokes, being gentle with me. He could have ravished me without my consent and he would still be the seductively saintly man I knew. But when he was feeling sensitive, this was how he chose to love me.

And this was what I wanted, because this was what _he_ wanted. To take me slowly.

He made this a struggle for my nerves, a test for my control. Nothing was a test for _his_ control. Carlisle was tied to the mast, always. So I came to him.

My hands were being atrociously impolite, creating a lovely golden mess of his damp hair as he pulsed within me.

We fit so perfectly, it hurt.

He punctuated each tender thrust with soft, sweet kisses to my jaw, my neck, my breast, my shoulder. Every time he tried to go deeper and realized it was impossible, he whimpered a sweet little noise of resentment. I wanted to ask him to tear me apart from the seams, but he would have gasped in outrage and retreated as soon as I uttered the words.

There was a time for that kind of love, but it was not now.

His eyes stayed on mine religiously, panting through parted lips as he elaborated his loving invasion. His fingers were like flames of satin brushing over my flesh, his chest like a tide of firm heat beating against my breasts, and his hips quaking with need as he brought me to the brink of unbearable pleasure.

The rain clouds were stirred by my ravished cries, pouring forth a stronger storm as we rode out our climax together. Our sensations suffused, building upon each other as he buried himself deeper, and I tightened more securely around him. I knew my strength could be unforgiving when the timing was right...

A gorgeous gasp of outraged pleasure broke free from Carlisle's lips as I clenched mercilessly around his swollen length. I wondered if he knew my reactions were pure instinct, that my body responded so harshly with the naive will to keep him inside me forever. It was my greatest longing, perhaps, to hold _life_ within me, even if it was very different from the life I had lost.

The sounds he uttered were exquisitely feral. Something between the threatening growl of a caged animal and the most melodious moan of contentment. Vocally, he was bold for only a few precious moments; the savage song only lasted so long before he reclaimed the strains of his control, reuniting with each of his senses in turn.

Touch was first, as his fingers grappled blindly but happily along my back. Then hearing followed, as his ears were alerted to the new, rough pattern of our breath. Soon after, his nostrils would flare ever so slightly, receiving the potent perfume of our mingling arousal. And last was his sight, his lashes lifting heavily to peer down at me, to find his reflection in my eyes.

Taste was an aftereffect, reserved for the moment when he pressed a firm kiss to my unprepared lips. He slowly savored our mating flavors, using the last of his strength to thank me before he withdrew from my now languid grip.

He leaned back, away from me, his body splayed out just beneath the crystal clear surface of the water, deviant suds of soap daring to gather around his lap as he stretched. I chased the bold bubbles away with possessive fingers, protecting him from any unwanted advances.

His body was perfect, proud, and long he filled the tub nicely, forcing me between his legs to make use of the only empty space. My hands reverently explored the length of his calves on either side, settling into the surprisingly supple space beneath his knees, and finally crawling up the tense bows of his thighs. My eyes were cursed to always marvel at these parts of him, these parts that were so often hidden, made a mystery by his modesty. Carlisle had been blessed with a form worthy of divine envy – thighs of a pearl-skinned gladiator, hips beautifully squared in smooth yet rigid angles. My fingers worshipped the natural artwork of his body, undiscriminating of each feature they came across. Every part of him was as sacred as the next.

His eyes closed as I let my fingers roam free beneath his waist, his own hands loosely latched to my elbows as he attempted to guide my motions. This was my time to care for _him_, this gentle silence that followed our unbridled passion. Carlisle had once described it like the smoke that lingers after fireworks – dark, hypnotic, and slow to disperse. Fireworks left shadows of themselves in the night sky – each shape a smoky bruise, a faded memory of the initial explosion, melting away in the wind. Like fireworks, I could still feel distant echoes of the sensations Carlisle had shared with me. Like fireworks, they left a startling silence in their wake, and when I closed my eyes, I still saw dim flashes of color in the darkness.

Such a perfect description it was.

With a small, secretive smile I stroked back a wet blond lock from his relaxed brow, leaning down to lay flush against him. He shifted slightly beneath my added weight, sinking deeper into the water. A satisfied purr rumbled through his chest, sending delicate sparks through me from where we touched.

I cupped his cheek with my small hand, brushing my thumb across his tired pout.

He blinked a few times, like a child being roused from deep slumber. I whispered to him, affection and nonsense, to which he responded with a distressingly fond and unsettlingly long stare. I addressed him as _"My love," _the term of endearment somehow feeling more intimate than his name in that moment. There was just a faint question to my voice as I said it, yet I knew he had heard it.

And now, I could see it in his eyes.

He was ready to speak.

**-}0{-**

Our talks never took more than a few hours, but this one had taken an entire day.

Carlisle was very easy to extract information from once he was in the right frame of mind. His mood had gentled from our lovemaking, his heart fully opened to me instead of rigid and reluctant. The rain reflected in his eyes no more. His gaze was no longer empty but it was loaded with truth. What he had seen that day at the hospital had been difficult for him. A father and a son had come in, in a dispute over whether the dying grandfather should be taken off of life support. The dynamics of such a relationship were often complicated by Carlisle's own fragile sentiments regarding fathers and sons. It was terrible enough for him to have no say in the matter while they argued with a dying man in the room. But even worse was the way the episode had ended: the eldest man was ultimately, and unwittingly, sentenced by both.

I was patient and attentive as Carlisle told me the story, offering more than just my ears to listen. I spoke when he asked my support on his point, and it so happened that I always agreed with him. It pained me that other people would dare to argue with my husband's reasoning, but life was unfair in that way.

Having these talks could not cure that problem, but just having the support of another could ease the sting of injustice.

I never took my eyes off of my husband as he spoke for hours, stroking the back of his hand to soothe him, soaking in every word he said while the storm outside settled to a steady drizzle and eventually cleared for a dreary twilight.

The windows were blue by the time Carlisle fell silent. His head rested on the pillows of our bed while I gingerly toyed with his halo of blond curls. My eyes drifted absently to the drawer of my night table where I had hidden every note and journal he'd let me keep.

I remembered the note I most often revisited, thinking fondly of how this evening testified to the truth in what Carlisle had so passionately wished I would offer. Was I not now treating him with the same unspeakable care and love that he had always dreamed of?

This, I realized, was evidence of my devotion, the ultimate reason why I was brought into this world for a second chance. To save him. To care for him. To love him.

Leaning over with a smile, I reached for the drawer and quietly opened it to retrieve my most treasured page.

"Do you remember when you gave this note to me?"

I held out the crumpled piece of precious paper for him to see. He squinted slightly with the effort to read what he had written, at once coming to recognition, a small, deliciously shy smile on his lips.

"Yes, I remember," he said, his voice low and husky. "You refused to read it when first I gave it to you."

"I was afraid it would leave me sobbing uncontrollably for a week."

"Ah…" His eyes sparkled in pity, but his smile broadened in betrayal. "Did it?"

"For an hour," I admitted, unsure whether to laugh or pout.

"Hmmm." He hummed thoughtfully, relaxing back against the quilts as he raised his hand to embrace the back of my head. His fingers worked gently into my scalp as he asked in a teasing murmur, "Was my penmanship that bad?"

I shook my head with a coy smile.

"Your penmanship is beautiful," I whispered reassuringly as I kissed the tip of his nose. "Just like everything else about you," I added, securing my hand significantly over his heart.

His eyes wilted adoringly as he let his head rest against the pillow, staring up at me as if _he_ were the unreasonably lucky one in this relationship.

It was then that I asked him quietly, "Do you remember what you said to me in this note?"

The question was useless, as I knew very well that he could recall every word perfectly. But even the most useless questions demanded an honest answer.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "Your love was tempting to me." He smiled a little, then continued softly, "You can't imagine how frustrated I was that you seemed to like curtains and flowers more than you liked me."

The embarrassed smile he wore was the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing I had seen all day. I positively itched to kiss his dimples before they disappeared.

"You made that rather clear in your letter, my darling," I reminded him wistfully, taking the moment to quickly peck each of his cheeks.

Oddly enough, he appeared intrigued. "Was I really so bold?"

I arched an eyebrow, presenting the folded note to him. "Would you like to reread it?"

Solemnly, he shook his head.

"I remember what it says," he whispered, settling his hand atop mine to press it gently down into the bed. With his free hand he reached up to let his fingers flutter lovingly over the side of my neck. I leaned into his touch as his deep voice drummed against my heart. "You kissed a doorknob," he accused.

I almost giggled at the awkward mix of humor and envy in his voice.

"You kissed a _candle_," I retorted with a brilliant smirk, "on our wedding night…"

My heart squirmed at the delightful memory of my new husband's perfect pout as he bent to taste the slender blue flame of a candle wick. I remembered how deliciously curious I'd found the gesture. I had been terribly vulnerable at the time to begin with, wondering what on earth had inspired him to do such a thing…and on our wedding night of all times.

Carlisle's eyes glittered magnificently at the recollection, his fingers stilled beneath my hair. "Did I…?"

I admonished him with a flick of my finger to his temple. "So _now _your memory is hazy?"

His lips slowly spread into a sly grin. "Remind me why I did that again?"

Unable to resist, I gracefully straddled his lap, leaning down close enough that our noses touched. "To extinguish it," I breathed over his chin, trailing my fingers down the firm column of his throat. "Your lips tasted like fire."

My tongue flicked out to gently nudge his bottom lip in suggestion, and he quickly accepted my unspoken offer. His lips molded around mine, strong, devout, and sorely tender.

"What do they taste like now?" he asked when our kiss was through.

"Love."

There was no other way to describe it.

* * *

_**A/N: **__This chapter was a bit of an elaboration on the last one, "Inspired by Black", only from Esme's perspective as she regards Carlisle during these moments of unease or weakness. I wanted to address the ways that communication between married couples can sometimes prove a challenge, even with those who have been together for ages. But of course, it has a happy ending. _

_If you're reading Stained Glass Soul, you certainly will be seeing Carlisle kiss the candle on their wedding night. It is a scene I've already written, and I just had to share a bit of his brilliance in this chapter as a teaser.)_

_Thank you as always for reading! I am consistently thrilled to hear your thoughts._


	7. Amber

_This chapter is a continuation from Chapter 3 of my story "A Pair of Emerald Earrings." It would be useful to read that story before reading this. To summarize briefly, Carlisle and Esme are traveling in Mumbai, India. Earlier in the evening that this chapter takes place, they found a copy of the Kama Sutra in the marketplace and have taken it back to the place they are staying. Carlisle has also secretly purchased a pair of earrings at the marketplace, which he plans to give to his wife at the end of their trip. _

* * *

**Inspired by Amber**

**Medium: Lotus Petals and Incense**

* * *

_November 1945_

_~Carlisle _

"Start reading then, Doctor," Esme whispered as her fistful of Lotus petals hovered over my shoulder.

The candles sent an amber glaze of light over her beautiful body with every graceful sway of her arms and legs. As she lifted her right arm, the top of her robe slipped off the pale coast of her shoulders.

Her fingers picked at the petals one at a time until the tip of the stem of the Lotus was naked, and she laid the petals upon my skin. Soft, white petals shaped like delicate velvet teardrops. I watched her closely with every move she made, my reverence matching hers in gaze rather than touch.

On the floor beneath us lay the sheer purple scarf she had used as a clever instrument of seduction, now tangled lightly around my ankle. I did not bother kicking it off.

With one hand Esme swiftly stole my journal from my lap and replaced it with the heavier, gilded book that now held our interest.

"Are you too shy to read aloud?" she teased me softly, glancing at the open copy of the Kama Sutra in my lap.

I felt a firm wave of heat rise to my neck as I peered down between my legs at the image printed on the page. I knew the descriptions quite well if I were to read them in , to read them in our native tongue for my wife was surprisingly daunting.

"This is not exactly the sort of book you open up and simply _start reading_, darling," I explained to her, failing to eliminate the gloss of seduction from my voice.

Esme smirked to herself while her hands continued busily decorating my torso with the Lotus petals. "Aren't you curious, though?"

She caught my eye and a silent secret was passed between our locked gazes. Without a word, I discreetly tipped the book toward me to keep her from seeing the contents of the page just yet.

She burst into a fit of luscious little giggles, tossing more petals over my shoulders as she leaned forward to kiss my forehead.

"I'm sorry," she said in a shy voice, her lips delightfully askew as she smiled up at me.

"Whatever for?" I asked as she placed another petal on my throat.

"For ruining this beautiful flower you gave me," she replied, showing me the mutilated stem of the Lotus I'd placed in her hair earlier that day.

A dreadful smirk crossed my lips as I twisted my fingers encouragingly around her busy wrist. "You're making good use of it," I assured her in a helplessly husky voice.

She bit her lip, her determined little fingers crawling up my front as she gently pushed me to lie down on the ground beneath her. Each petal she put to rest in a different place on my chest, my stomach, and my shoulders. Esme always had been very good at decorating...

"I can't believe ten women did this to you before," she mused, her jaw tightening slightly as the thought sank in.

I couldn't help but feel a stupendous surge of satisfaction that this bothered her. "Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your voice, my sweet wife?"

She growled softly in response.

"They were very pious women," I reminded her, suppressing a chuckle. "To adorn their 'god' with lotus petals was a practice of deepest reverence."

"I think something else might have prompted them to decorate your bare chest in flower petals." With that, she brought the very last petal up to her tongue and gave it a slow, sensual lick, coating it in her venom. She then pasted the moist Lotus petal in the very center of my chest, securing it with two surprisingly forceful fingers.

"I think it should be noted that they did not _tongue_ the flower petals before placing them on my skin, my dear," I remarked, shifting so that my arms were behind her back. I pulled her closer so that I could whisper into her ear, "And neither were they straddling my waist while they carried out the ritual."

Esme rubbed her hips against mine in response, a sly smile in place on her mocking lips. I idly shook my head at her, not quite in the mood to engage in a detailed discussion of 18th Century Hindu rituals.

"Turn the page," I ordered her softly.

Esme's left hand reached over my shoulder to find the open copy of the Kama Sutra where it now rested by my head on the floor. Her eyes lit up as she took in the elaborate illustration. "Is this it?"

"Mmhm."

It was somehow both stirring and comical to watch my wife's head tilt sideways in scrutinizing appraisal as she beheld the primitive yet highly colorful pictures of this mysterious Lotus position.

"Oh...my..."

I raised my eyebrows at her in challenge. "Are you having second thoughts, dear?"

The tiny pink tip of her tongue crept out to moisten her lip as she shook her head. "Flexibility isn't a concern of mine," she whispered throatily into my ear. My stomach tightened at her approval.

As I leaned close to kiss her, she tilted her head back, inviting my mouth to settle instead on the column of her throat.

So that was how she would have it.

I concealed my smile in the warm skin of her neck, tonguing my way from her collarbone to her ear.

"Will you light this?" I heard her question through the haze of my desire like a whispering breeze. I looked down to find her slender fingers tracing the brass lattice cover of the incense burner that lay beside her on the floor.

There wasn't much that could enhance my erotic mood, but the thought of burning sweet incense while I made love to my wife was incredibly appealing.

I nodded, lifting the screen with one hand to brush away the ashes at the bottom of the bowl.

"See those bottles over by the window?" I whispered to her.

Esme turned her head to view the brightly colored glass vials resting on the open window sill and nodded.

"We need to mix some of them to create an incense," I told her. "Choose which ones you like and bring them back here."

She got to her feet quickly, the sheer ends of her robe fluttering around her calves as she padded across the floor. I watched her select several bottles from the row **– **a slender purple one, a short green one, and a round orange one. She carried them back to me and placed them on the ground beside the burner. I quickly read the engraved Hindi labels **– **nag champa oil, juniper seed, and amber resin.

"You picked a good combination," I remarked, twisting the cap off of the amber bottle. "Are you sure you're as unfamiliar with incense as you claim to be?"

She grinned at my teasing and shook her head. "You know I just picked those bottles because I liked the colors."

I smiled. Of course I knew that.

"Are you watching how I do this?" I checked, not bothering to look up while I deftly dipped the charcoal stick into each bottle, gathering the ingredients together.

I could hear the grin in her voice as she answered me. "I'm watching."

"Alright, then you try it." I handed her a clean stick of charcoal and let her repeat the process.

She carried out each step with perfect care, with the same expert finesse that she would when she handled jars of linseed oil and turpentine for a painting. She sprinkled the juniper seeds over the resin paste and set the ingredients beneath the charcoal bed, her fingers glistening appealingly from the oils.

"The candle, Carlisle," she reminded me, her tone telling clearly how amused she was at my ease of distraction.

I reached behind me to lift the candle dish for her. "Remember, you don't want a full flame, just enough heat that it starts to smoke."

She nodded, eyes narrowed in concentration as she took her charcoal wand and touched it lightly to the fire. Tiny purplish threads of smoke coiled upwards from the tip before she pulled it away and slipped it through the burner screen. Inside, the caramelized resin glittered in the heat at the bottom of the bowl. Esme leaned down curiously to get a better look.

"Don't breathe it in too closely," I teased her softly, tucking my arms around her waist from behind. "You might become intoxicated." I kissed her hair, reveling in her chorus of giggles.

She twisted her head around to face me, her eyes wickedly deep and beautiful while they searched my face. I savored her suggestive gaze, trying to decide which was responsible for the soft surge of sweetness in the room, the incense or my wife.

She slipped her fingers lightly across my jaw before finally loosening herself from my embrace.

I imagined my heart would have been pounding like a stonebreaker's mallet as I watched Esme uncloak her body from the gauzy violet robe she wore. The translucent material had done very little to cover her curves, but a ripple of relief twisted inside my groin when she was finally nude before me. My eyes opened up a little more as I watched her gracefully cross both her legs and tuck her ankles against her thighs, leaving her lap cleverly concealed. She slid back from my lap to sit upon the silk like a Native American woman sits upon the soil. Modestly, meditatively.

Taking a deep breath, I moved to sit up straighter, letting the remaining snowy white petals flutter down from where she had placed them on my shoulders and chest. They landed around me in a protective sort of wreath, one perched precariously in the center of my lap. Esme reached down and picked that one away with two meticulous fingers. That was her territory, and she wouldn't have some presumptuous little Lotus petal stealing it from her.

She stared innocently up at me, and I wondered why she had not yet reclined. Then I realized. She was waiting for _me _to give her the instruction.

My prickling desire ignited fiercely as I leaned in and whispered, "Lie back for me, sweetheart."

Closing her eyes in submission, Esme obeyed my quiet command. Her back settled onto the ground, causing the silk to sigh. Her breasts parted slightly as gravity, too, longed to touch them as I did. Her nipples were still soft and full, needing the pressure of my tongue to slicken them stiff. Every inch of her distracted me, yet she was here, utterly exposed before me while the candlelight cherished her velvety skin. The gentle golden glow spread from her neck to her legs, low but luminous, like a lantern being held over snow. The faintest shimmer awakened in her flesh as the light passed over her tangled limbs, almost resembling perspiration.

Unable to resist, I reached out with both palms and touched her. She responded instantly to the pressure of both my hands **– **a sharp intake of breath, a flutter of eyelashes. She stiffened, then relaxed as my fingers fondled her breasts, her body gently writhing on the floor. Her hair brushed along the quilt, stray tendrils creeping a little too close to the molten candles.

"Be careful of the flame, darling," I warned her softly as I gathered her curls and tucked them safely behind her shoulder.

She was moaning quietly in the back of her throat as I spoke, and I couldn't help but smile at her distraction. Leaning down close to her face, I pressed a light kiss to her temple before I blew out the nuisance candle flame.

One less candle had darkened the room deliciously. The wind swept through the open windows from outside, carrying the stolen scent of the sea with it while the silvery smoke from the incense burner tickled the air with a sharp sweetness. I breathed in deeply, letting the rich, salty perfumes awaken my arousal as I deftly plucked the fastens of my trousers, revealing every hidden inch of my flesh.

I saw Esme's eyes appraise me before quickly looking away. Her arms reached out behind her head, and her hands gripped the limp golden tassels of the pillow behind her. Her fingers played with the threads as she awaited my touch, knowing her idle tickling was taunting me while I worked to finish undressing. Once my clothes were cast aside, I took a moment to savor my nakedness, my eyes laving as much over my own body as hers. I found a quiet kind of exhilaration in comparing our bodies this way, under dim lights, with only inches between us, our flesh soft, pale and aching.

Esme's coppery eyes lifted to mine, and without a word she begged me to touch her. So I did.

My impatient fingers fluttered down her thigh, seeking a flower far more sacred than the Lotus blossom. Esme looked and felt so delicate when I touched her this way, but I knew her deceptive powers. Like a gilded goddess, she would draw me in with her submissive feminine guiles, but once she held me in her trap, she would be ruthless. Her petals were delicate, but their core was strong.

I took hold of both her knees and slid my hands slowly down to where her ankles rested against her hips. Keeping firm hold of her so that she would not slip away, I pressed against her and worked my way inside. She was resisting me **– **purposefully, no doubt **– **I could see the glimmer strike her eye as she peered up at me. She wanted me to be firm with her.

It would often go against my nature to use any sort of roughness with Esme but when she asked it of me, it was fascinating how capable I was of impressing her. At her bidding, I thrust against her, once strong then gentle. She tested me unwaveringly until I begged her to relieve me of the tension, my knees straining against the ground as I gathered her weight over my thighs. As my hands gripped her waist, she at last relaxed, allowing me to slip into my sacred burrow.

She clutched me from within, hot and slick. Her strength was exhilarating, unforgiving. She assumed her strange position beneath me with glorious ease, her legs knotted gracefully against her chest, her arms outstretched for my shoulders. She _was_ like a lotus blossom; every part of her resembled a flower to me as the last of the candles bewitched her luminous skin.

I pulled out of her briefly, allowing my skin to cool for a stolen moment before I would drown myself in her warmth again, knowing the heat would be twice as satisfying the second time I dove. She let her head fall back against the dizzying embroidery of the Persian pillow, the brilliant puzzle of colors and swirls peeking out from behind her slithering hair. Her soft white neck was fully exposed to me, and I leaned down to taste the crescent scrape of my teeth beneath her ear.

She gasped when my tongue touched her flesh, and her body shuddered under my added weight as I thrust instinctively against her at the sound.

"This...is..._divine._"

Her voice was like hot water **– **flowing and luxurious and searing.

The scene before me may as well have come straight out of one of my dreams. It was something of a guiltless fantasy to watch my own demure wife sighing like a harlot, sprawled out over a pool of amber silk and rich Persian patterns. She glowed under the flickering spots of candlelight, her hair shimmering like dark fire on the pillow. The fertile fragrance of her arousal mingled with the smoky residue of the incense; as I breathed her in, I never wanted to release my breath.

I could feel myself pummeling the sacred niche that rested deep inside of her, this place where her pleasure would burn her like fire if I pressed it just so. She was so open to me, so receptive, yet with every move she gripped me tighter, gnawing my hardness, threatening my power. The feeling sharpened every time she dared to move, little miracles of sensation blossoming between our joined bodies. I knew that very soon those sensations would fuse together and meet with an explosive perfection that would render us both senseless and guileless in each other's arms.

Just the inevitability of it made me pulse with want.

Esme reached up for me with both arms, her eyes closing peacefully as I let my rhythm fall tame for a while. The slower pace allowed me to feel every detail of our melding flesh, but it did not come without the price of testing my self-control.

She gave a soft, tremulous whimper, and I swallowed it with a stifling kiss. Her legs were shaking where they pressed against my chest, and it was not until I could see her this way, trembling and sweet and soft **– **so very much like a flower **– **that I understood precisely why the books had called it the "Sacred Lotus."

I raised my body slowly before immersing myself fully within her again, the heat of her welcome overwhelming me. Just as quickly I retreated once again, wanting to bring her closer to her brink before I submitted to my own. The burn of the incense clouded my senses, heightening my excitement to a most dangerous realm. I had left pearls of my own venom along her thighs; there they lay as evidence of my desperation, as delicate water droplets would lay on a flower's petals.

I saw Esme's hazy eyes turn down to appraise my accidental art, and with a longing sigh she reached for my hips and tugged me towards her. As I brought my finger to her lips to hush her, she took the tip of that finger into her mouth, and I was helpless to do what she wished.

There was a fine line between temptation and desperation, and I believed I had crossed it as she welcomed me back into her sacred body.

Inside, she clenched and quivered exquisitely, holding me prisoner until her pleasure was complete. At the crux of her aching cries, she twisted her fingers through my hair and pulled me into a sweet, dizzying kiss. Her tongue was made ever sweeter by the delightful flood of venom in her mouth. She worried my lower lip with her teeth until she grew tired and I grew restless.

She lay back, spent and breathless, but her hands remained bound like steel cuffs around my biceps. She would not let me go until I had fulfilled myself as well.

At last I slid into her as deeply as I could, and she was generously accommodating in such a position. The feeling of her was even more perfect **– **wetter than a rose in a rainstorm, having already been painted by her climax.

Unmentionable Hindi phrases danced on my tongue as I balanced my weight on both knees and set myself a challenging rhythm. I learned quickly that my rushed words, senseless as they were to Esme's ears, had an encouraging effect on the heat she kept within her body. I was quite confident that I had built up enough friction to start a fire inside of her, and that fire would explode gloriously when I finally let my rhythm break.

I climbed a daunting climax, and she helped me in that climb like a good lover should. Her hands found their way around the back of my neck, tugging me closer to gently lick at my throat.

Sounds that were neither English nor Hindi, or any other recognizable language came flowing from my lips, the force of my release causing the both of us to shudder. I expelled my sweet agony in streams of liquid fire, sent to explore the depths of her body and soul. The entire time I watched her, studying the changes in her face, pleasure and gratitude and wonder the primary colors of her beautiful range of expressions.

The sensations lingered in me long after I collapsed into Esme's loving embrace. Her legs unfolded from her unusual position to slip around my back, and she closed around me everywhere like the petals of a blossom in twilight, holding me snugly against her. I lay my head on her shoulder, still pulsing gently against her until every drop of fire had fled from my body. The velvety pass of her skin along mine as I drew out my final movements felt heavenly. It was with bittersweet regret that I fell at last into stillness.

From the corner of my eye I saw the incense spiraling lazily out of the burner, making smoky shapes in the air. The scent had reached its peak moments ago, just as we had, and now it was settling along with us.

I stroked my wife's cheek lovingly before I rolled off of her, gathering her close to my body on the rumpled quilts. The view from this particular place on the floor had grown awfully familiar in just the short while we had been here. I smiled as the stars blinked back at me from the window across the room. The sound of the sea in the distance was like a melody from a dream, lulling Esme into an impossible slumber.

She lifted her lithe fingers in a curious gesture, twirling them through the air in front of her face as she closed her eyes. I watched her fondly from above for a while, imagining what brilliant artworks she was creating in her mind.

"You're painting again," I accused her, chuckling beneath my breath.

She smiled bashfully to herself as she let her fingers float down to rest on my arm where it lay across her middle. "Stop teasing me," she murmured with a grin. "I miss having canvas with me."

"I have a canvas for you, darling," I whispered, leading her hand to the center of my chest. "Go on... Paint me."

I closed my eyes as I let go of her hand, awaiting her tender touch. Her fingers did not hesitate before they trailed up my side, coming to rest at last on the ridge of my collarbone. From there she began to drag her fingertips along my skin in a wonderful undulating pattern that repeated all down the front of my torso.

"Can you guess what I'm painting?" she asked softly. I could hear the smile in her voice as her touch became lighter around my navel.

Concentrating on the repetitive pattern of her artistic fingers, I smirked in secret as her swirling lines began to make sense. "I feel…waves."

I heard her breath shudder as if she were laughing quietly at me. I raised my eyebrows, eyes still shut as I guessed, "You're painting the sea."

She did not answer me with words, but with a simple added pressure of her hand on my lower stomach. The firm warmth of her palm on my sensitive skin as she rubbed back and forth told me clearly that I had been correct in my guess.

Her obvious love for the sea inspired a wayward thought of the emerald earrings I'd stashed away in my pocket earlier that evening. My lips broke into a secret smile as I imagined the many ways she might react to her gift.

"What are you smirking about, Doctor?" she asked me, her voice both seductive and warning in a warm sort of way.

Deciding I would play with her a bit, I stretched my arms languidly above my head and twisted my torso to face her on the ground. "Just thinking that I may have found a new favorite book."

I let my eyes open halfway to watch as she glanced at the open Kama Sutra on the floor.

"You've only read one page of it," she teased me, her lips drawn into a brilliant grin.

I leaned close to whisper into her ear, "And I'm eager to read the rest." My lips grazed her earlobe as I retreated, and she looked up at me with irresistible eyes.

"Maybe we should write our own book together," she suggested breathlessly.

Though I was entirely aware of her teasing, I couldn't help but think her suggestion appealing.

"Would you be willing to contribute the illustrations for this book?" I asked her, unable to suppress a cheeky grin.

"If you would be willing to do the writing," she retorted, tickling my fingers.

Her eyes locked to mine for a brief pause, caught in a stare that plunged our flirtatiously shallow conversation into far deeper waters.

"I don't know where I would even begin to write a book about our love, Esme," I admitted in a ragged voice, weaving my fingers into her limp caramel locks. She shook her head softly as she reached back for my worn leather journal where it lay by the incense burner.

"I think you've already written one, Carlisle," she whispered with her fingers tight on the corner.

I could see the question in her eyes; it was always there whenever we spoke about my journals. I'd had too many to keep over the years, and so I'd finished each year or so by burning the most recent one I'd kept. The only one I'd saved till this day was the one I had written in during our first year together, before and shortly after we were married. That one, I let Esme read. The rest I'd kept in part private, though I was tempted into letting her read a page or two every now and again.

"You've been wanting to read it?" I asked softly. I watched as she looked down at the book's cover with longing and ran her hand across it as fondly as she would if she were running her hand across my skin.

"May I?" Her voice was so quiet I'd been forced to read her lips to know what she was asking.

Wordlessly I slipped the journal from between her hands and opened it to the beginning of my most recent entry before setting it gently back into her grasp.

The page I'd chosen to share with her was personal, but not so much that I felt averse to letting her read it. There was something delicious about watching the way her eyes lit up as they devoured word after word that I had written. I could see how precious my private thoughts were to her, how captivating she found even the most uninteresting sentence. To me it was just another account of my day; to Esme, it was a glimpse of my soul.

As I watched the subtle changes in her face, I thought I could tell which parts she was reading. Her eyes would soften when she read the paragraph where I had envisioned her wading in the water. Her lips would curve into a blushing half-smile when she read the details of our adventurous visit to the marketplace earlier that day. Her breaths would begin to hasten when she read my wistful plans for the evening...

Her eyes lifted to mine when she reached the end of the page, and I imagined she would have flushed in the cheeks when she noticed how intensely I'd been studying her the entire time. The dainty tips of her fingers threatened to turn the page, but I stopped her before she could.

Gently I captured her fingers and touched my lips to her knuckles in apology before I slid the book out of her hand. She gave me a questioning look, but the tint of a smile in her eyes told me she knew at least part of the reason for my interruption.

_But she did not know that the rest of that entry revealed the secret of her emerald earrings..._

"Too personal?" she guessed, lightly dragging her baby finger along my forearm.

My lips spread into a bashful grin as I carefully closed the cover and tucked the book behind me. In an effort to distract her, I leaned back over her body and began to pepper her forehead with slow, soft kisses, hoping she would let it be.

I covered her lovely face in affectionate chaos, licking and kissing more vigorously when I sensed that she might have been about to speak.

To my subtle surprise, she started to giggle.

I backed away to look at her face. "What is so amusing?"

She bit her lip and pointed down at my ankle where her silky purple scarf was still tied loosely around my foot.

"I was just wondering how _that_ happened." She punctuated her reply with another delighted laugh.

"I'm wondering how you noticed," I retaliated, reaching down to tug at the stubborn accessory.

"I thought I could feel it brushing against my skin every now and again," she whispered, somehow making the casual comment feel utterly intimate.

Smiling to myself, I unraveled the scarf from my ankle then moved to gently tie it around her thigh, twisting the ends in a perfect bow.

"What's this for?" she asked while my fingers finished the knot, giggling at the ticklish sensation.

"You never wore a garter on our wedding," I said plainly.

"And only _now _you've chosen to rectify that?" she asked with an irresistibly amused smile.

"Better late than never," I reasoned, letting my gaze caress the invitingly soft skin just above her knee.

"True," she whispered, fondly stroking her makeshift garter with two fingers. Her eyes peeked back up at me. "You look positively ravenous, dear."

Her observation nearly prompted me to growl. "I'm thinking of several creative ways I can remove this garter," I confessed darkly.

I noticed a shiver run swiftly through her. "All of this Kama Sutra business must have gotten your imagination flowing," she mused, her eyes sparkling with intrigue.

I shook my head, smiling incoherently. "It doesn't take much to get anything 'flowing' when I'm around you."

I placed a sensual kiss on her cheek and curled my fingers into her hair while she laughed wickedly beneath me.

"So are you going to demonstrate these 'creative' ideas for me, or are you just going to scribble about them in your journal and hide them away forever?" she asked me, an exaggerated pout on her plump lips.

"I'll let you choose," I negotiated submissively, noting something distinctly mischievous alight in her expression.

She discreetly raised her right knee to rub gently against her left, the sound of her soft legs sliding against each other all but persecuting my control.

She raised a single eyebrow and whispered, "I think you know exactly what I want." Her eyes at once filled with the instant ink of desire.

"Then I think it's only fair to warn you," I murmured as I lowered my face to hover over her thigh, my teeth poised above the sheer purple fabric. "Your new scarf may not survive the night in one piece."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you very much for reading! I would love to hear what you think of this chapter. And if you have the time to read "A Pair of Emerald Earrings," I would love hearing your thoughts on that story as well. :)**


	8. Turquoise

_This chapter, like the previous one, is a continuation from the final chapter of another one of my short stories, "__**Patterns in the Chaos**__." Reading that story first would help set the stage for this vignette, however I have done my best to make this chapter easy to understand for new readers as well. Just to give everyone an idea of the setting, this takes place the morning after the newborn battle in Eclipse._

**Inspired by Turquoise**

**Medium: Stones and Glass**

* * *

_June 2006_

_~Esme_

The battle had taken its toll on us both. We both knew very well that the things we had seen would never leave us. Our memories would recall with utmost perfection every earth-shattering scream, every face we had struck, and every body we had burned. But this was the curse of our kind, and one we had learned to live with in relative peace. In the beginning I had not been so sure I could stand it. However, I now felt a quiet strength building within me from the fire of our bond. In my husband's arms, I felt myself being pieced back together again ever so slowly from the inside, and I wondered if he felt the same tender reconstruction in his own heart.

We had spent the entire night this way, wrapped in each other's arms while we watched the sun rise from my garden on the hillside behind our house. The trees hid us from the rest of the world, but it was in hiding where our love thrived the most.

The morning was cooler than the night had been. It brought with it a chilly breeze from the North, which came streaming through the tall trees, scattering pine seeds and making the long grass shudder. I burrowed my face against Carlisle's shoulder, and he held me tightly until the wind had settled. Wordlessly, our heads both lifted to face each other in the morning's first faint beams of sunlight.

In the moment I opened my mouth to speak, he interrupted me with a strong, unexpected kiss. It was not often I had the wind knocked out of me with such keen senses, but having gone the entire night without once being kissed on the lips by him, it had come as a shock.

I gave Carlisle ample credit for his passion. He had the right to silence me with it whenever he pleased. He had my permission to smother whatever I had been about to say. Surely it would have been nonsense anyway – a useless "good morning," I think. Or something like it.

My mind was clean and my heart blissful as I surrendered to the feverish invasion of his tongue between my lips.

During last evening's battle I recalled feeling very strongly that Carlisle and I had all but squandered our kisses in the past. Now I vowed to treasure each one more than the last and initiate them only when the moment was just.

Our kiss was barely more than consuming, but gradually it grew into a wild war. We reprised yesterday's battle with a compassionate combat of our own, recreating the thrill of violence through infinitely more peaceful means. We gripped each other like we would our enemies, but we did not snap each other's necks or crush each other's shoulders. The muted melody of exertion that came from our throats was not born from stress or pain, but rather from urgency and pleasure.

It was _the battle_ all over again, relived and justified in the grips of our love for one another.

Together we could make something so repulsively violent into something so astonishingly beautiful.

Heat, fervor, love, desire... I began to familiarize myself with these unforgotten feelings my husband ignited in my heart. The flora and fauna of the forest that surrounded us seemed to flourish in encouragement as he deepened our kiss. I was lost in him, entirely at his mercy when I felt my body being lifted by his arms.

He carried me along the path between the trees, past the last garden lantern whose flames were just burning down, beside the small stone fountain that sprinkled my ankles with droplets of water as we passed. He took me down the hill, and my heart leapt when his footsteps finally met solid pavement.

Our kiss broke when the front door did. He placed me on the ground, pushed me into the wall, rubbed his body against mine...then decided the front hall wasn't satisfactory, and carried me to the kitchen. My bottom barely grazed the countertop before I felt him drag me into the living room. My back fell flat against the couch cushions, his weight pressing pleasantly over me. After a few dry, pointless thrusts he picked me up with a grunt and pulled me back into the hall. Our breathing was frantic and our pace was rushed as we blindly passed through all the first floor rooms.

Finding the house had been utterly abandoned, we had the freedom to introduce our rapture to any room at all, but the familiar comfort of our second floor bedroom still called to us. It seemed _right,_ for reasons that made little sense but were entirely mutual. My husband could not love me this way – not rushed and rabid – at a time like this. I found a spare moment to stare into his eyes and see that. There was a time for that sort of love, but it was not now.

Now was a time to continue what we had begun the night before. It was the time for healing and mending all that was broken. For this, we needed peace.

There was a look to Carlisle's eyes, a clear look that somehow conveyed the single word "upstairs". I could not explain what it was about his eyes that made the suggestion so clear, but it was always a soft-spoken invitation when the situation beckoned us. It was silly when I thought back to the days before we had adopted our children; we would have stripped ourselves in the dining room or front hallway without a second thought. Over the years we had somehow assumed the conventional roles of true parents in a house full of teenagers, acting with caution and even a bit of reprehension when we considered using the lower level rooms for making love.

The silliest part about it was that we both knew it was ridiculous to limit ourselves. We did it out of choice.

Our choice led us up the stairs and into our designated bedroom at the very end of the hall.

On yet another strange and unnecessary impulse, Carlisle locked the door.

I attacked him with a fit of kisses before he could step forward, and he sagged against the door in surrender to my attack. I somehow managed to exhaust myself with my own intensity, savoring the power I felt when he allowed himself to be no less pliant than putty in my hands.

I soon discovered that I wanted to be the same.

As always, Carlisle was aware of my unspoken desires. He laid me down on our bed, swiftly undressed me, then dressed me up in kisses. I struggled to slide his sleeves down his arms, unwilling to open my eyes while his skilled tongue coated my throat in venom. He helped my efforts along by shrugging out of his shirt and sweater until his torso was bare, and I peeked out of half-closed eyes to find the golden glimmer of his cross pendant dangling around his neck.

He had not been wearing it lately, at least not as often as he used to wear it. When I had first joined Carlisle in this life, he had worn that cross beneath his collar every single day. I supposed he had felt the need to wear it again when we had gone to battle – for protection, for courage. Though I sometimes had doubts about my husband's perseverance in faith, I could not help but admire his will to cling to it now.

He noticed where my eyes were, and I could not tell whether his face was bashful or indifferent. I met his gaze with an understanding smile, watching as his forehead softened with ease. I touched the small cross with my fingertips as I let my hands slide around his shoulders, bringing him closer.

His arms braced around my back as he leaned between my legs, pushing me slowly down onto the sheets to make room for his body. In the midst of our heat, I managed to tuck my toes into his back pants pocket, tugging suggestively for him to remove the rest of his clothes.

He confirmed my request with a luxurious kiss before rising up to slide his belt through the loops of his waistband. I behaved myself while watching him, finding a curious interest in the care he took to undo each button below his belt, the way his fingers patiently plucked the end of the zipper before dragging it down.

A shimmer of fleeting sunlight spilled through the long glass windows of our bedroom, awakening the sleeping diamonds hidden in his sculpted chest. When he caught me smiling, he smiled faintly back, knowing the cause of my fascination without a word from me.

It reminded me of the days when I had first started living with him; I would wait all day for him to pass by a sunny window just to watch his skin glisten. He was just as enchanting a vision now as he had been then.

But now I knew that he belonged to me.

Carlisle sensed my thoughts had taken me somewhere distant; his hands paused before they could drag the waist of his pants past his hips, his stare fixed dreamily on my face. Slowly, his hands eased away from his lap, discontinuing his fervor out of concern for me.

He knew I had something to say. He was waiting for me.

"Is it still under the bed?" I asked.

His eyes deepened with instant understanding. We only ever kept one thing beneath our bed in every house we lived in. No one knew we kept it there but Edward; no one else knew of our sentimental secret.

Carlisle's head tipped forward in a slow nod as his eyes flickered to the ground, directing me to the hiding place of our most valuable treasure.

I raised myself up from the mattress, sliding a sheet around my naked shoulders for mild modesty before kneeling on the floor to peek under the bed.

My hands reached underneath to tug the dusty antique chest from the shadows. I took a moment to stare at the familiar entwining ivy engravings on the lid, my fingers delicately swiping away the webby gray layer of dust as I traced my way down to the lock.

I craned my neck to look up at my husband, finding him with a small smile on his lips and an even smaller key in his hand.

I never knew where Carlisle kept the key to this special box, if it even had a permanent place of hiding or not. He seemed to have the key on his person at all times, but he never told me how he did it. Whenever I wanted to open the chest, all I needed was to ask him and he magically produced the key that unlocked it.

I never wanted to open the box without him anyway.

I bit my lip as I accepted the key from his hand, and he bent to lift the heavy box up onto the bed. His arm swept around me, pulling me into his lap as he settled on the mattress, and he rested his chin on my shoulder while I eagerly fitted the key into the lock.

As soon as I heard that thrilling _click_, I took a deep breath and opened the lid.

Years later, the box still did not creak whenever it was opened. I believed it was as timeless as the treasures that lay inside of it.

Only the most precious and memorable items from our first days together were hidden inside of that old chest. We'd kept everything from Carlisle's journals to the empty watercolor tubes I used to paint with. My fingers searched through the box, reverently holding up each object with a fond smile as I extracted them from the mess.

A few of Carlisle's maquette sculptures, shaped like animals that were no bigger than the palm of my hand. The deck of playing cards Edward and I had used when we were bored. Small crystal pieces from the chess board we'd played with. My old sketchbook, still stuffed with various book pages and pictures Carlisle had given to me for inspiration.

Reaching underneath the pile, I carefully extracted the old book of South American maps Carlisle had given to me as a gift, opening to the page where I had pressed a wilted honeysuckle flower. It was brown and more brittle than a dead leaf, but it would forever look beautiful to me because of where it had come from.

"Do you recognize this flower?" I quietly asked my husband.

He looked over my shoulder at the dead blossom with sad eyes, reluctant to shake his head.

"You gave it to me one night when we were in the greenhouse together."

A look of recognition passed over his features, warming his face as he touched a fingertip to one fragile petal. "You kept it?"

"You're not the only one who keeps flowers pressed inside books," I teased softly, reminding him of the mysterious Spanish blossoms he had hidden inside one of his poetry books.

I felt him smile as he pressed his chin to my shoulder and sighed. He watched contentedly while I unraveled the red woolen scarf I had made him wear one late autumn evening when he'd gone out to visit one of his patients.

"I know you must recognize this," I said with a smile as I lovingly tucked the scarf around his neck. As silly as he might have looked wearing just a scarf over his bare chest, I could not find it in me to give the softest giggle.

His face had faded into a more serious expression as our eyes locked, my hands still clinging to his shoulders.

"What made you want to look through these things?" he asked me in a husky voice.

I turned slightly to look back inside the box while I pondered his question, as if I would find the answer hidden amidst the nostalgic mess.

"I don't know," I whispered, bemused. "Everything in my life right now seems to be changing and… and I need something constant and timeless to look back on...to remind myself where we came from."

I shrugged one shoulder, causing the sheet to slide down my back. My bare arms were immediately concealed by Carlisle's strong hands as he drew me closer in his lap. We both stared at the open box's contents, each lost in our own thoughts until one of his hands released my arm to reach inside for something that caught his eye.

My stomach felt an uncanny flutter as he brought out the hand-painted porcelain music box that he'd given me as a Christmas gift before we were married. Its delicate blue paint had not chipped in all the years we'd kept it. Shining under the faint sunlight from the window, it appeared just as enchanting to my eyes as it had the first night he'd placed it in my hands.

As he had on our first Christmas Eve together, Carlisle gently forced the unassumingly heavy little music box into my palm and whispered for me to open it. His fingers joined mine as we lifted the lid together.

The leftover melody from its last use chimed sweetly through the air, giving my heart a familiar pang.

I rested my head back against his chest, watching the hypnotizing motion of the tiny ceramic mermaids as they swam beneath the bright blue glass. Carlisle stroked my belly with affectionate fingers until the music came to an end, and he closed the lid before leaning back to place it on his bedside table.

"We'll keep this one out for a while," he murmured when he saw my mildly questioning look.

I timidly bit my lip as a smile crossed my face, leaning over the edge of the box as I began to search for more things we could make use of. I never would have guessed that I could become so easily distracted given the mood upon which we had entered our bedroom together. But I found secret comfort in knowing what was to come after that box was finally closed.

My fingers shook excitedly as I scooped out a handful of smooth blue and green stones that had fallen to the bottom of the chest. As I let them tumble onto the bed, a fond grin found my husband's lips.

"I'm sure you've been missing these," I said playfully, reaching inside to collect the rest and drop them onto the comforter.

In all the years I had known him, Carlisle had always been a collector of odd knick-knacks and antiques that would have found no other home in the world. His heart was open even to inanimate objects, much the way my own was. He longed to adopt everything he saw, even if they would have been just as content collecting dust at the bottom of a road-show wagon. It was part of what had made him so intriguing to me from the very beginning. His study was always filled with the strangest items that came from all corners of the world.

His collection of turquoise nuggets was one of the most familiar to me. I'd somehow come to memorize the subtleties of each individual stone after years of studying them by my husband's side. They each developed their own unique personality in my mind, in much the same way the pieces of a chessboard seemed to speak their own stories. My imagination loved to "enchant" many inanimate things, as my husband liked to say.

During our early years together, I had begun to notice Carlisle slipping one of those turquoise stones into his pocket to rub between his fingers whenever he grew nervous. Soon after I noticed the peculiar habit, I'd discovered several pretty blue and green stones hidden in the pockets of his lab coat and scattered amongst his sculpting tools. I assumed he kept them close by for comfort – similar to the endearing dependence he had on candles.

I knew these kinds of habits did not arise out of chance. They were a necessity to him, born out of a deep-set and subconscious fear of loss. He wanted to keep something familiar close to him to redeem all those times he had been abandoned in his life. Candles and bits of turquoise, though not the liveliest company, were things he could control. They would remain wherever he placed them until he moved them again, unlike people who moved about freely and unpredictably whenever they pleased.

Carlisle always said I was the first person in his life who had renewed his lost faith in people. He had always been absolutely certain that I would never leave him no matter what happened, something he had never felt for another before me.

And here I was, incidentally, still whole by his side even after the most threatening situation we had ever been called to face.

And here _he _was, still whole and alive by my side, arranging bits of turquoise on the edge of our bed like a fascinated little boy.

There was something gently erotic in the way he was touching those turquoise stones.

I felt my dead heart thrumming again, my patience wearing thin from our unintentional delay. I needed him now, and I knew I would never be more grateful to receive him if he offered himself.

"Carlisle...?"

His eyes were focused, his face glowing with youthful excitement as his fingers moved the stones around on the covers. Never taking his eyes off the task at hand, he nudged his head in my direction and ordered, "Sort those ones over there, will you?"

Apparently I wasn't the only one who had gotten distracted.

I smiled in disbelief, shaking my head as I reluctantly joined him in ordering the stones from greenest to bluest on the edge of the mattress.

"I used to do this whenever I was under stress," he reminisced.

I nodded to myself, my eyes still fixated on his fingers. "I remember."

He smiled in contentment. "Surprisingly, I still find it slightly enjoyable."

"I hope you aren't using it to relieve stress now..." I warned him as my wandering fingers began their discreet seduction, sliding the out-of-place scarf from around his bare neck. "Because you know you now have other ways to take care of that."

I made significant contact with his eyes while my finger gently fiddled with the button on the inside of his pants. I could nearly feel the charge flood him as he dipped me down in his arms and immediately finished undressing himself.

I sighed my grateful relief when he was finally nude above me, caressing handfuls of my hair while he kissed every inch of my face. As we got a bit carried away, the perfectly ordered line of turquoise nuggets dropped to the floor in a miniature hail storm. I faintly heard them scatter over the hard wood and mentally reminded myself to later find the ones that had rolled beneath the bed.

Between kisses, Carlisle mumbled something incoherent then turned to close the chest and set it down on the floor beside the bed. I was surprised at how he managed to keep so steady while he did it. Just watching him, I felt ready to burst out of my skin.

Before he could rise up again, I leaned over to quickly kiss his bottom while he was still bent over the edge of the bed. His muscles tightened at the unexpected touch of my lips, a pleasantly startled breath escaping his lungs as he turned to find me with an innocent hand covering my mouth.

The gentle grin that crossed his face made him look years younger as he encouraged me to lay beneath his body.

"Tell me you feel like you've been waiting forever for this..." he murmured longingly, caressing his cheek firmly against mine.

I nodded hastily, cupping his head in both my hands as I forced him to kiss me. I drank from him like I would a goblet, downing everything he had to offer me as a woman dying of thirst. My passion was rapidly gaining on me. Only now did I realize I had been running swiftly away from it since the battle had begun. Now, I was free to pursue it once again.

Carlisle gently parted his lips from mine, lingering out of kindness when I whimpered in protest. He sweetly pecked my chin like a young dove bowing his beak to the grass – once, twice, three times – until I was ready to let him go.

He knew how to please me, both physically and emotionally – there was a softness to his movements, sometimes tinged with a strain of passion, a ripple of sentimentality. His eyes were half-closed, but I could see the intensity buried in their depths, his dark pupils pregnant with a mysterious fire. His gaze was black with desire, but I could almost see the light within his eyes. It was not visible, but I could feel the heat radiating from them deceptively – like a pair of coals that did not look it, but were still hot. I could sense that they would burn me if they touched me, and touch me they did.

His eyes roamed all over my exposed flesh as his tall, lean body hovered above me, warm hands and lips moving over me, wrapping me up in that same soft feeling of love and safety as he always had.

He murmured softly as he pressed a delicate tapestry of kisses into my belly. His words were of a very private sort, even though he knew I could hear them perfectly. What he said made my breath fall short, but I wouldn't dare repeat it even in the safety of our bed. He was preoccupied with his affectionate artwork, confined to working in solitude over my bare stomach while I watched from my pillow.

He continued his stream of unmentionable poetic murmurs as he caressed his way up to my breast, his lips clinging to my nipple when he reached the end of his journey. There his tongue rolled in gentle circles, making my flesh point in pleasure.

Outside our window, a delicate rain had started. Droplets shimmered down the glass like clear strands of tinsel, their sparkling song seeming to calm my husband's eager lips. I watched as he lifted his face and opened his eyes to see how my breast gleamed with his venom. I was sure that if he were human, a flush of pride would have pierced his cheeks as his gaze followed the moist trail of his kisses over my bosom.

He abandoned one aching breast for the other, kissing the soft curve beneath first. I looked down in concern as I felt his lips turning lazy with distraction. His forehead was creased where I could see it; something was on his mind.

Instead of interfering, I lay still and watchful, waiting for a sign that he might share his consuming thoughts with me. His eyelashes fluttered against the underside of my breast, and my toes curled lightly in response. He remained unaware, lost in his own world as his tongue gave one last redeeming lick to my sensitive skin. He then rested his head on my chest, riding my breaths like a young child laying dependently against his mother.

A pang filled my chest, strengthened by the pressure his head placed on my heart as I patiently wove my fingers into his hair, studying each glorious golden strand. I felt him sigh against my skin, and I buried my nose in his blond locks, pressing a small kiss to the center of his head.

"I love you, Carlisle."

I felt he needed to hear me say the words out loud. I hoped whatever worries danced inside his mind would melt if he heard my voice, for both selfish and entirely unselfish reasons.

He did not respond verbally, but with a tender tightening of his hands around my waist. I felt a wave of amorous heat blaze through me as the evidence of his desire stiffened against my thigh.

Sighing heavily into his hair, I shifted, rolling his body slowly beneath mine so that I could hover over him. I watched from above as strands of my hair dangled freely over him, the curled ends caressing his handsome face. I traced the familiar lines of his jaw with my fingertips until his sleepy eyes fell closed again. When my touch found his lower lip, I felt his hips raise ever so slightly from the bed, nudging me gently as if seeking entry.

I soothed him with confident hands as he lay beneath me, submissive to my strokes up and down his arms. So often Carlisle insisted that the beauty in his body could never match my own. At times like this when he allowed me to explore every inch of him without shame, I had to disagree with him. His physical beauty was truly no less astounding than the beauty I had seen in his heart.

Unshed tears filled my eyes as I remembered how shy I had been when he had first bid me to touch him this way; how he had confessed his unimaginable pleasure by the doing of my naïve hands. In a tremulous and humiliated voice, he had called my touch "_divine._"

Before that moment I had never imagined I could have such power over him. In every way I had known him up until that point, Carlisle had been in the position of dominance, however gently he played his role. But when we laid our bodies to bed together, the accepted dynamics of our relationship had changed in a way neither of us had anticipated. We were caught somewhere between human and animal, real and unreal, soft and rough, slow and rushed, body and soul.

I wanted, always, to recreate what we had felt on our first night together.

"To think I could barely touch you on our wedding night..." I whispered reminiscently as my fingers nestled happily between his thighs.

"As I remember it, you learned rather quickly," he replied, his voice a dark and gravelly contrast to his warm and gentle eyes.

My memory flared with humble doubt as I bent to place a timid kiss on his sternum.

"I'm not so sure about that," I murmured against his warm skin.

"You weren't the only one who was nervous," he whispered, so quietly it sent a harsh shiver down my middle. "My knees nearly went weak when you let me undress you for the first time." His hands cupped my breasts gently, rubbing his thumbs over the peaks of my nipples.

I sighed my appreciation, both at his words and the loving ministrations of his fingers.

My hands continued their blissful journey over the curves of his muscles, mimicking the sensual way he was touching me. His hands caressed their way deliberately from my breasts to my shoulders, sliding down my arms and up again, as if he were sculpting each of my limbs by hand. Meanwhile my fingers slid through the slim valleys of his abdomen, lightly ghosted around his navel, and teased the soft flesh on the inside of his strong thighs.

His eyes opened again when I reached my goal, dark and fiery and pleading. I took his hands in mine and placed them on my waist, at last raising my body up to settle over him. I let my legs slide to either side of his hips, leaning back as I allowed him to push snugly into me.

A soft growl of approval rumbled in his throat, and I purred lovingly back at him, taking his shoulders into my hands for leverage as I moved over his body. Parts of me felt almost virginal again after not having him in so long. The friction frightened me as he took hold of my hips and burned my core with a visceral thrust. I gasped when I felt the tough touch of his sex deep inside, the familiar thickness startling me – like opening my eyes to the sun after a day spent in the dark.

I wanted to speak to him as he filled me, find words to describe how much I had missed this, how deeply I had needed him for the length of time we'd spent apart. I wanted to ask _him_ how it felt now, after so long... But my mouth was dry, and my mind was blank.

My body shuddered as his hands tugged me closer, and when I resisted out of instinct, he roughly flipped us over so that he could conquer my patient rhythm.

His face twisted beautifully with emotion as he began thrusting impatiently against me; he looked as if tears could have been streaming down his face. His jaw trembled and his eyes fluttered without control. Carlisle wore pleasure so well...

"Oh, Esme...if I had lost you..." he groaned, fast approaching the verge of incoherence with each achingly deliberate thrust. "To never _feel _this again..." he whispered in a passionate panic as he considered the dangerous thought. He looked and sounded so utterly heartbroken, his pace hastening in desperation, his hands gnawing at the small of my back as he lifted me from the bed.

I cried out when I felt him stab the end of my passage, the first trembles of his release teasing me before he pulled out again.

"_Don't say that_," I hissed back at him, barely believing he could hear me if he wanted to. I dared to throw my arms around his powerful shoulders and was crushed by an overwhelming kiss. His tongue plunged between my lips just as he mirrored the same passionate siege beneath the sheets, all but perspiring from anticipation.

Sometimes I wondered what _he _felt, on the other end that sensation.

A man had more artistic freedom when it came to sex, I thought. He could measure his thrusts, go deeper, retreat, control the friction. But all the woman could do was hold him as tightly as she could when the moment felt right.

He buried himself fully within me, and I clutched him before he could pull away, determined that this would be his final drive. My eyes followed deliriously along his shuddering body, down to where my hand was desperately hugging his thigh. I managed to trail my fingers up over his hip, settling just below his belly in time to feel him through his climax. My fingers lingered there, fascinated by the frantic pump of his muscles as he lost himself inside me. He cried out shamelessly as he christened my womb with his love, one warm strike after the other.

I felt myself catch fire from the inside out, and long before he could finish, I surrendered my own control. I could vaguely sense my body thrashing wildly beneath his while his hips still rocked into mine, his arms lifting me high enough to meet him, chest to chest in the heat of the moment. I felt something like the tingle of goose bumps rise on my flesh, all my senses heightened though my mind had gone numb as I lay limp in his feverish embrace.

A heavy breath left my lips, carrying half his name into the world. I produced the same sound with a second exhale, once more failing to address him fully. He forgave my incoherence with a long, tremulous kiss on my illiterate lips. To be fair he had not even _attempted_ to utter my name.

He held me upright against his chest as we sat tangled together in the center of our bed, dragging his hands in a firm path up and down my back. I liked to think that with each stroke he was really channeling his passion into me, calming himself slowly into stillness.

A steep feeling of renewal rushed through my breast, curling snugly around my heart as I settled my head on his shoulder. After everything that had happened to us, all the worry, all the terror, it was heaven to finally know I was safe in my husband's arms. As much as I feigned bravery in the face of danger, deep down I would always long for this: coming home to my angel's embrace after the war was through.

On the battlefield I'd had my doubts. But here I was confident; nothing could tear us apart.

I clung to him desperately until his breath had settled, feeling the rise and fall of his lungs against my breasts, the remnants of his vigor quivering through his limbs until his muscles had at last relaxed around me. Without a word, he tipped me beneath him, coming to rest behind me on the soft bed. My body curved to fit his seamlessly, my back molding to the familiar form of his torso. His chin found its favorite resting place on my shoulder where I could feel his every breath on my neck. Were I still human the comforting rhythm surely would have lulled me to sleep.

But my eyes, always curious, remained halfway open during these moments of post-coital peace. I was close to Carlisle's nightstand, face to face with my beloved music box where he had placed it earlier that morning. I saw it glimmer invitingly in the rainy light, and on a whim I reached out to bring it into bed with me. I rolled it onto its side so that I could wind it up, then I opened the lid to let its sweet melody free.

Carlisle's arm tightened around my middle when he heard the music, and I soon felt the weight of his head settle behind mine, sharing my pillow. He listened to the innocent chime of the music box while I watched it rotate slower and slower as it unwound.

A larger hand intruded on my private scene, sneaking in over my head from behind me. Lean fingers curled familiarly around the elaborate music box, joining my own as we traced its handmade details. Our fingers seemed to be having a silent conversation with each careful stroke, accidentally lacing together when our hands passed the same place.

Whenever the soft, chiming music came to an end, I was tempted to rewind it, especially when it stopped in the middle of the song without proper conclusion. However, this morning my husband had decided that silence was welcome. As soon as the last clinking note sounded, his hand cupped the rounded porcelain lid and gently pushed it down until clicked shut.

The rain stopped and started outside while we lay lazily in bed together, soaking up the peaceful hours that connected morning to the afternoon. The sweet, consuming perfume of rain-drenched trees and grass floated through the open window, grazing my forehead in a fragile breeze. On the opposite side, I listened to my husband's breath as it washed into my ear, as soothing as the sea.

He sounded as if he were sleeping, but I knew better. Carlisle was deceptive in his mellow demeanor, truly as vigilant as a hawk while I lay in his arms. I knew that the slightest cause for defense would awaken his reflexes for immediate strike. His body felt relaxed, but beneath it all I could feel that he was bound tightly, each muscle poised as if he still feared the sudden attack of a newborn vampire in the safety of our bedroom.

Unable to resist, I finally turned to face him, finding eyes as brilliant as the sun against beaches of white, unadulterated sand. His gaze was warm and clear, indeed sated from our union, but still tinged with uncertainty.

He stared into my eyes in silence, breathing steadily as if he were being hypnotized by the mere sight of my face. His finger lifted a stray curl of my hair from my shoulder and placed it on the pillow beside my head. He had that serious look about him, and I wondered what mildly upsetting thoughts were on his mind.

I did not pry, but rather waited patiently until he spoke.

"I felt guilty," he murmured at long last, his voice roughened from rest, "every time I took one of their lives."

I thought on his words for a moment, on what he must have felt to still be thinking about this nearly a day after the battle had ended… more importantly, to still be thinking of it mere hours after he had made me love to me. Admittedly, I sometimes found it difficult to empathize with my husband's ruthless compassion. When it came to the protection of my family I had little sympathy for the ones who threatened us. However, Carlisle always felt the pain of their hurt in his own heart – a pain I had only felt tiny pangs of while consumed in battle. Carlisle had been all but possessed by the pain of killing others. It showed in his eyes, and there it would stay.

"I knew what you were feeling," I sighed in understanding, stroking his soft blond hair away from his eyes. "I was watching you."

His forehead puckered delicately at my confession, as if he doubted it.

"More than you realized," I added secretively, tracing a finger down the side of his nose.

"I watched you as well," he whispered back, challenging me to speak even more softly.

"I could feel you. Your eyes on me," I confirmed beneath my breath. "You saved me more than once."

His chest pushed against mine beneath the covers as his eyes gleamed with tender pride.

"Nothing could stand to sever our connection, darling," he said with conviction as he nuzzled closer to my face.

"They're the same way," I quietly alluded to our children, pair by pair. "Alice and Jasper. Rosalie and Emmett..."

"Edward and Bella," Carlisle added quietly, pensively.

I nodded against his shoulder.

"Do you think she makes him stronger?" I asked tentatively, apropos to our son's future mate.

Carlisle pulled back to stare at me thoughtfully, his eyes flicking across my questioning face before he finally answered. "In a sense, yes. But in other ways… no."

A little bit of regret sparkled in the corner of his eye, like a tiny teardrop of doubt. His beautiful lips pulled into a frown as he dove deeper into his thoughts. I knew those thoughts would pull him deeper yet until he was entirely lost in them; he would drag himself to the edge of the earth in his mind. This was the danger in letting Carlisle think for too long.

I cocked my head on the pillow we shared, taking his cheek into my hand in the hopes of bringing him back to my world. "One might say you're the same way with me, Carlisle," I said affectionately, but my words were serious and I knew he understood this.

"And I would never dream of denying it," he acknowledged wisely. "But we are all this way, I think," he continued, his eyes drifting to my heart. "Weaker because of our attachment, but stronger because of our bond."

I gave some thought to the twisted analogy but did not immediately find sense in it.

"I don't think of you as making _me_ weak," I reproached.

He smiled a little – the small, charming smile that seemed to hide a thousand secrets – the same smile he had given me from across the altar on our wedding day.

"In theory, if we were forced to live apart for the rest of our lives, would you feel the same way?" he challenged gently.

"I would be nothing without you," was my instant reply.

"No, you wouldn't," he countered softly, surprising me. "You would have just as much worth as you do now. Do not ever believe otherwise." His voice faded into a whisper as his hand caressed my hair.

I leaned appreciatively into his touch, but the thought elaborated in my mind, entering dangerous territory. My eyes flicked open as if from a nightmare, finding the safe white landscape of my husband's chest. But deep inside my gut there was a feeling of dreadful unease as I considered the possibility of a less than happy ending to what had happened yesterday. My hand slowly reached forward to grasp his arm beneath the sheets in panic.

"What if one of us _had_ died out there?"

As soon as I posed the question, the rain stopped, enveloping us in eerie silence.

His eyes became dark, like amber coated in rust.

"None of_ us _did," he pointed out, as if this were all that mattered.

"_She _did," I said, my voice low and shaky; I couldn't bring myself to say her name. My eyes lost focus of his handsome face as my memories tumbled past in a whirlwind of gruesome images. The poor young girl with her wide, frightened red eyes; her dependence which had reminded me so much of myself as a newborn. I recalled the way she had clung to my arm, accepting my guidance in a new and terrifying world.

"Esme..." Carlisle's voice longed to bring me back.

"I'm sorry," I cried, shaking my head against the pillow. "I wanted to let it go – really, I did. It's just that now... I feel I must remember it."

His body came even closer to me, all but burying me in his warmth as he shielded my forehead with a doctor's caring hand.

"Then let the memories come, love," he murmured, soothing my worry away with each pass of his fingers over my temple. "Let them come, and let them pass."

My body involuntarily shuddered, a strange mix of anger and relief as I struggled to purge myself of the unpleasant memories.

"Why did they have to take her life?" I asked uselessly, frustrated by the injustice of it all.

"_They _didn't. God did," Carlisle said abruptly, a crease of pain filling the sensitive spot between his eyes when I looked up sharply at him. "I know you do not like to hear this, Esme, but the child's death... it was meant to be."

A sinking feeling filled my stomach at his bittersweet words. I had willingly accepted my husband's beliefs when I married him, but this did not mean I had adopted them without a fault. The things he said, while often bearing the glow of a righteous hope, did not always satisfy my concerns. Sometimes they fed my frustration, and as much as I wanted to adhere to all he said, there were many times when I simply could not.

"Oh, Carlisle," I whimpered inaudibly, my eyes burning a hole through the tiny golden cross on his neck. "Your faith stings me sometimes."

I felt him tense against me, the tender weight of every part of him that I loved so dearly tightening with concern as he tentatively held me closer.

"Is it a good sting or a bad sting?" His voice was fragile, fearful of disapproval.

"I can't tell," I half-lied. Truthfully, I didn't have the heart to say. "Sometimes I wonder if I can have faith in anything."

"Look at me," he commanded, the words inescapably resonant in the small cotton trap of pillows surrounding us.

Having no choice, and wanting no choice, I looked into his eyes.

"I love you," he said, his voice deep and strong. "Have faith in that." He leaned close to cover the scars on my neck with his warm mouth, and I shivered with the feeling of deep peace that had miraculously settled between us from one intimate touch.

"I've always had faith in your love," I said as his tongue crept up my neck toward my waiting lips. I surrendered to his kiss – and a strange kiss it was, progressing in the reverse – restless at its birth, but chaste at its end.

He leaned back with a satisfied sigh when it was through, staring down at me through half-closed eyes as if he thought he had sent me to sleep. I peeked up at him innocently, showing him how very much awake his kiss had left me, and he smiled in understanding.

In that smile I saw the man I had married, a man whose faith – whether agreeable or not – was and forever would be a _part _of him. Each day Carlisle made me remember why I had chosen to link my soul with his. I loved him _for _his faith. I loved him _for _those things I did not always agree with. I loved him in spite of his faults, shortcomings, weaknesses, and failures, just as he loved me in spite of mine.

His eyes caressed my face in silence, as if reading every one of my thoughts. He never spoke in moments like this, but I could almost feel the words he would have said, echoing soundlessly in my ears. Our connection existed on a level untouched by worldly means. It could only be reached when both our souls put forth their greatest effort.

The urge to make love to him again flared within my heart while lost in the heat of our endless stare. But my urge was followed by a rigid pang that no matter how many times he unleashed the fire of his love inside of me, it would never result in new life as I had always hoped. Some part of me still held onto the foolish belief that one day it would be possible, and I would rise from our bed feeling the weight of a growing child in my womb.

It was because of this shortcoming that _children_ sometimes made me want to cry... _Children like Bree._

I tried to mask my regretful thoughts with a small smile, which thankfully was not too hard with Carlisle smiling back. I knew my mind was only getting carried away, as ripe and vulnerable as I still was from my many brushes with death the day before. I could take some comfort in that, knowing I was safe now.

"Do you know what's strange to think about?" I decided to ask my husband, knowing fully well that he expected something unexpected from me. I had a habit of making random observations, which Carlisle had always found endlessly fascinating.

He backed away slightly to bring my full face into view, adjusting his head on the pillow so that he could be eye level with me when I told him. I loved that he always looked so eager to hear what I had to say.

"Hmm?" He hummed his curiosity, taking my hand to his lips while his eyes lazily searched my face.

"That there was one day, a very long time ago in your past, and on that day was the first time you said the word 'doctor'."

His eyebrows lifted and his smile went askew, amused as he always was by my quirky little thoughts. "What made you think of that?" he asked, barely able to suppress a chuckle.

"I was just thinking of...little children...saying their first words." As hard as I'd tried to hide it, the tremors in my voice betrayed my true emotions.

Mild shock and pity filled Carlisle's eyes as he hastily ran his fingers through my hair, "Dear Esme," he sighed, tilting his head to meet my averted gaze. "Do not use this time to dress yourself in regrets."

"I'm not dressing myself in anything," I defended, only realizing the implication of my reply after I said it.

His dimples fluttered in amusement as he caught my eye, and a soft chuckle escaped his lips. "Good," he whispered, pleased. "Leave yourself bare." His hand traveled approvingly down the slope of my waist beneath the sheet.

I sighed, shifting closer to him so that my cheek was pressed to his chest. My restless fingers quickly found his cross pendant and twirled the golden chain absently while he watched from above. His breath became content with relief, and knowing I was okay, he finally rested his head over mine and fell silent.

"Are you looking out the window?" I asked him after a while.

"Mmhm." I heard the smile in his faint mumble, his secret delight in knowing I would never be content unless I knew what he doing at every moment.

"What do you see?" I asked wistfully, preparing myself for his beautiful descriptions.

"Trees... So many trees," he said, the simplest observation filling me with awe. He gave a timid chuckle. "I would swear that at least five or six more of them have grown just outside our window overnight. And their branches seem closer to the window than they were before...almost like they're reaching toward us."

"Tell me more," I demanded, nudging my head affectionately against his chin. "What do the trees look like?"

"They look even more beautiful after a storm. Their leaves are thicker, their colors are brighter..." His hands drifted up my back, gathering the ends of my hair and letting them fall over my bare skin in a ticklish tumble of unruly curls. "Everything is so green, Esme. The forest has been thirsting for this rain for a long time, I think."

I could barely resist turning to look, but I kept my face hidden from the view, determined to rely on his vivid descriptions and my own imagination for now.

"What about the sky?" I pressed, trailing my fingers encouragingly along the base of his neck. "What does the sky look like?"

He took a deep breath as he thought.

"The sky is still gray from the storm, but in the distance I can see the sun, just barely... I think it is hiding for now." His voice rumbled gently through me, barely softer than a purr.

"You make me want to look for myself," I confessed beneath my breath.

"Then turn around, my love," he suggested, his hands already preparing their place on my waist to help me turn over.

Anticipation coursed through me as I obediently rolled over in his arms and looked, curious to see how well his description matched with the real view from our window.

Thicker leaves, brighter colors... Branches reaching straight towards me... Gray skies pierced by a glowing sun on the horizon...

My husband had not exaggerated. Everything was as beautiful than I had expected it to be. I had never seen the view from our window looking like this before. The trees themselves seemed to be growing slowly before my very eyes, their leaves dancing sporadically with each passing breeze. The faint light of the sun touched the treetops off in the distant hills, the shimmering peaks of pines nearly scraping the low rolling clouds as the storm chased itself away.

Raindrops clung to the glass of our windows, pinpricks of light reflecting the greenish glow from outside into our room. It was mornings like this that made me truly appreciate the wonders of having a wall full of windows. It allowed the magic from nature to freely invade our bedroom whenever it pleased.

Lord knows how long I stared out at the breathtaking scene, taking in every detail for my memory to revisit once it was all gone.

"Oh, Esme..." Carlisle's aching voice suddenly whispered my name over my shoulder. "I am so very, very blessed to have you here."

"In your bed?" I teased softly, a twisted smile working its way onto my lips.

He sighed in brief amusement, drumming his fingers happily against my belly. "In my bed... In my arms."

His confirmation was painfully sincere, devoid of any humor.

"Then I'm blessed to _be _here," I replied with the same irrepressible passion.

He nudged against me beneath the covers, a visceral need for closeness. We all had it, but Carlisle's need was stronger than the others'. Sometimes I even believed his need for closeness was stronger than my own.

When I turned to look back at him, I could see it in his eyes – the residue of his fears, glistening like the raindrops on the window after a spring storm. Yesterday's battle had left us with hundreds of scars, yet our time together had healed only half.

I could see how this experience had taken Carlisle to the brink of his wits and tossed him back again, like a man falling overboard on a ship at sea. Now, we were picking up the pieces of the shipwreck together, watching the waters turn from choppy green to tranquil turquoise with the rising of a new sun.

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**A/N: I was really inspired with this one; I'd love to hear what you thought of it. :) Could you see it taking place after the battle in Eclipse? **


	9. Indigo

_This chapter takes place during the middle of **Twilight**, about a week after Edward has introduced Bella to his family for the first time. Carlisle and Esme discuss the challenge of trusting a human with their secret, and also the potential joys that Bella's love could bring to Edward, as their only son without a mate._

* * *

**Inspired by Indigo**

**Medium: Stars on Night Sky**

* * *

_April 2004_

_~Carlisle_

Twilight gently tapped the shoulders of the trees behind our house, leaking into the forest in rays of blue and gray ash. Every evening in Forks began the same way, and I watched it from the windows with the pensive silence of a man who had watched the evening fall a thousand times. It was one of the most wondrous things about living forever – one learns that these things never happen the same way twice. Nature was as violently changing as the winds she breathed.

Like all nights in Forks, Washington, this one was exceptionally wet. The moisture seemed to cling faithfully to the air, even in the dead of winter. Though it was only early spring right now, the chill of the previous season still hugged the atmosphere, condemning the earth to a few more weeks of frost when the sun went down. It made me pity the trees and plants to watch them struggle so courageously against the cold. We were in that awkward phase between winter and spring where the buds were fooled into thinking it was time for them to bloom. Some of them tried too hard too early, and their fate was to wither under frozen dewdrops before they saw the sun of another morning. But nature ensured that the miracle of a flower would soon bloom into fullness. The frost was a rough enemy to face, but the steadfast determination of wildlife always won in the end.

My eyes took in the quiet darkness of the forest behind our house, imagining the way it would look when spring finally unleashed the fullness of her glory. The dull, murky greens of the conifers would burst into startling shades of emerald before the end of the month, and I looked forward to this metamorphosis with almost as much excitement as my beloved wife did.

Esme had the most curious relationship with nature. I often felt that her soul was linked with the very elements that composed our earth, rather the way Native American tribes believed their spirits became one with nature when they passed on. From the beginning I had been swept away by the love that Esme had for all living things. Her touch was healing not only to me, but to the most simple, insignificant plants in her garden. Esme perplexed me endlessly with her maternal instinct in caring for those plants, a most endearing contrast to the childlike wonder she still had when she watched the petals unravel from the magical touch of sunlight and water.

I knew she would be outside on a night like this. For the past several nights, I had found her in the same faithful spot on our wide wooden balcony, tending to her assortment of potted plants. Passing quietly through the upstairs hallway, I came to the sliding glass door that led to the balcony and smiled when I saw that she was exactly where I had expected she would be.

She was a vision in the dewy light of dusk, her stunning silhouette looking most inviting where she stood in solitude beside her rows of sprouting seedlings. She made soft cooing sounds as she studied each in its bed of soil, as if she were wishing them sweet dreams for the night. Seeing her this way always reminded me that my wife was, through and through, a true mother. I believed all mothers desired to some extent that comforting ritual of sending their little ones to bed at the end of the day. In unique circumstances, our children naturally never _went _to bed, and so Esme made up for that by "tucking in" her garden when the sun went down.

At first I had been amused by her behavior. But now, like everything else Esme did, I found it enchanting.

I opened the glass door slowly, slyly, trying not to disturb whatever eccentric little whispers she shared with her precious seedlings. I knew she was aware of my presence from the way her body tensed ever so slightly. It was a different sort of tension than the kind she showed when she was nervous or afraid. I knew enough to see that it was a _good _kind of tension, a simultaneously relaxed sort of tension that she only ever displayed when I entered her space.

My smile widened as she moved from one tiny pot to the next, tracing her finger over the rim to clear away the droplets of rain from the afternoon's storm. It would only rain again through the night, but she insisted that they be tidy anyway.

I moved slowly up behind her, close enough now to hear her murmured words as she spoke beneath her breath.

"You need a little more soil in here, don't you?" she whispered to the last little pot on the ledge of the railing. I watched as she bent to scoop more potting soil from the bag, patting it down neatly around the inside of the pot. "There we go... That's much better."

Esme seemed so incredibly happy when she was surrounded by plants. A part of me understood the obsession, having lived alone for so much of my life before I met her. Something living, even if it could not speak back to you, was better than no company at all. But I still struggled to understand how she became so attached to those little fronds of herbs and flowers she collected. I supposed it had something to do with watching them grow from birth. She had planted them as seeds and witnessed the miracle of their growth until they were too large to fit in the little pots she had reared them in. She was usually quite melancholy when we had to move them from the balcony to the garden in our yard. It was a cycle of birth and rebirth, gardening was. And although I'd never had the same touch for it that my wife did, watching her immerse herself in that fascinating journey made me feel as if I, too, were a part of it.

At last my hands slipped comfortably around her waist, delighting in the familiar little shiver that went through her small body at my touch. I had come to expect the same reaction from her after so many decades of marriage, and she never failed to fulfill that silent expectation. It was slight, but it was most definitely there, whether she realized it or not.

Leaning my head over her shoulder, I looked into the pot that had held her attention for so long, noticing the sprout peeking out of the soil was a fair bit shorter and scrawnier than the other healthier looking ones.

"Is this one the runt of the family?" I asked her softly, kissing her temple to ensure that I was only teasing. Lord knows the last thing I wanted was for her to get worked up over a little seedling.

Her worry was evident in everything from her stance to the tone of her voice when she replied shakily, "No matter what I do, it just doesn't seem to want to grow. I'm beginning to think it may be a lost cause."

I hummed with pity against her shoulder, casting a sympathetic glance into the shallow pot of soil she still held in her hand. "Hmm. One of the few but unfortunate tragedies of gardening, darling."

"There's always one..." she sighed with a regretful shake of her head, setting the pot down on the ledge with the others.

Once her hands were free, I stole them swiftly to rub soothing strokes over the beds of her palms.

"I know it's a little disheartening," I said quietly, "but we can always plant another." I hid a kiss in the back of her hair, pausing with my eyes closed to breathe in her sweet scent. There was nothing more soothing to me than my wife's natural fragrance mixed with the bold, earthy smell of soil. I always knew when she had been spending time in her garden from that scent she carried around with her for hours afterward.

"I know," she answered mildly, squeezing my hands back to show her appreciation. "It just makes me sad to see them die."

The potency of my heart's reaction to this simple statement surprised me. I had heard Esme say similar things before, but never in such a falsely dismissive tone. She could never hide that telltale tremor of emotion from me. I knew her too well. Her sadness infected me like a relentless virus, and the lump that quickly formed in my throat at her words was proof of its power.

My hands twisted gently in her blouse, encouraging her to turn around and face me. There were stars twinkling in her large eyes, like two tiny spoonfuls of heaven preserved in globes of ancient amber. I watched as her hand worked itself free of mine and lifted to affectionately touch my cheek. She gave me that look **– **the one that seemed to say, _"I can't believe you are here in front of me..."_

With a tender smile, I slipped a finger over the shell of her ear and whispered, "For every seed that fails to thrive, another will surely flourish."

Her lip twitched reluctantly into a wry half-smile. "Who said that?"

"I did."

Relief filled me from head to toe as her beautiful giggling floated through the chilly night air. I kissed the quirky corner of her lip and embraced her tightly, determined to draw her attention away from uncooperative seedlings for now.

"You're quite the gardening expert, Doctor Cullen," she replied teasingly, tangling her fingers into my hair.

"I believe that title belongs to you, Mrs. Cullen."

She smiled proudly, her bright eyes flickering over to the row of thriving plants beside us. "There's something so exciting about it – watching how something so beautiful can come from nothing."

I barely contained a rather irreverent chuckle at her statement, earning me a somewhat perplexed glare.

"_Seeds_ aren't 'nothing'," I corrected her with a knowing smile.

"I never said seeds were nothing," she defended, glancing rapidly between me and the plants.

I leaned close to press my nose against her cheek, barely attempting to hide my grin. "Do you have something against seeds, Esme?"

"Of course I have nothing against seeds," she said sweetly, catching onto the direction of my teasing. Her fingers tightened slightly in my hair as she pulled me closer and whispered, "I love seeds."

What would have likely been a very consuming kiss was swiftly interrupted by her eruption of helpless giggles. I smiled fondly as I stroked her hair back from her face, imagining the way she would have become flushed from her laughter if she were human.

"It feels good to hear you laughing again," I confessed while my fingers calmly stroked through her silky curls of hair. "It's been a rather stressful week for us all."

She nodded, her expression suddenly growing more solemn. "Especially for Edward."

I couldn't help but sigh heavily, as if the weight of my son's burden rested on my shoulders as well. "He has a great many decisions to make, and he must make them sooner rather than later."

"Bella will have many decisions to make as well," my wife added.

I nodded gravely, my mood shifting quickly with the change in subject. "I only hope she understands the impact she has on Edward; on all of us. Her choices will carry as crucial consequence as ours."

I felt Esme's fingers press more firmly on the back of my neck as I turned my head towards the forest, my eyes following the soft indigo streaks of twilight behind the trees. The scenery was tranquil, but my thoughts were a storm. Having only met Bella twice since she had moved here, I could safely say that I found her shy but pleasant and most certainly a fine match for my son. However, I had reserved other, more personal concerns for her safety...and her trustworthiness.

"She is so very young," I found myself murmuring out loud.

I glanced nervously toward my wife, sensing that her demeanor had shifted. Her eyes changed as she slowly began to understand the message I had carefully veiled with my chosen words.

"Carlisle, I've never known you to be a man of such liberal doubt," she whispered sternly. Even the softest chastisement from my wife was enough to pinch my guilt. Her eyes glowed fiercely in the dimness as she stared up at me, a certainty on her face that I rarely saw except in dire circumstances. "Our secret is safe with Bella. I'm _confident_ that she would never tell a soul."

"You may be right," I conceded softly, "but the risks are still dangerously great, darling." I twirled a limp lock of her hair loosely around my finger while I spoke.

The action seemed to calm her a bit, for her words were much gentler when she replied.

"I understand that," she said steadily, her eyes softening. "But if we must place our trust in someone, Bella is the one we can trust."

I tilted my head to the side and stared adoringly down at my wife, wondering how she could be so fantastically sure of something that still seemed so unstable and uncertain.

"If she truly loves Edward..." My words faded into silence, and Esme deftly filled it.

"...She will do everything in _her _power to protect _him_."

"Just as he does for her."

Esme nodded wisely, her eyes bright and pleased as I finished her thought.

"Our son..." I trailed, at a loss for the right words to express what I wanted to say. "Esme, our son is..."

"I know." Her voice was solid and sure, but oh so quiet as she calmly beamed up at me with hopeful eyes. "Finally," she whispered into the silent night, and the lone word seemed to sparkle when she said it. I heard the faint touch of a most humble pride in her voice – the pure, unselfish pride of a mother.

The impact of what we were speaking about was almost painful to me. After so long watching Edward grow and learn and change, he was at last taking the final step we had all fervently hoped he would take one day.

It seemed I had watched Edward reach the milestone of "becoming a man" so many times throughout our life together. A part of me was afraid to devote my hope to the notion that this would be _it. _His relationship with Bella was promising so far – she loved him in return, and she seemed quite content to keep his secret for eternity – but it was only the beginning of a much bigger problem we would all need to work to solve. I desperately wanted to believe it would all turn out as we hoped it would in the end, but I could still not ignore the nagging doubt in the back of my mind. Regardless, I knew that I would fight for my son's every happiness to the very end. Even more than that, I knew Esme would be one step ahead of me the entire way, and it only increased my brilliant adoration for her.

For perhaps the first time in my exceedingly long life, I felt as if my wife and I _were _an aged couple. We had been worn down from the world around us, beaten by the words and worries and unfulfilled hopes of our past and future. We had seen bad times, and worse times, and better times, and amazing times. And yet we were still here together, clinging to one another as if this would be our final moment to do so, somehow so very much at peace in our life together despite the pains and hardships that had befallen us.

Lost in our embrace, I clutched tighter to Esme's shoulder, bringing my lips down to savor her smooth skin. Kissing her made her feel more real to me. The touch of my lips on her flesh awakened me to her presence as I closed my eyes and accepted what was to come.

"I'll never know how we manage to live like this," I murmured into her neck. She made a small noise of hesitant agreement and shifted so that my lips grazed the thin etchings of her scars.

I shivered as I felt her fingers creep slowly back into my hair, firmly encouraging me to bow my head closer. I took full advantage of my access, tasting every part of her that my tongue could reach without moving from my appealing spot.

"I feel like we should be doing something more to help Edward and Bella, but all we can really do is wait," Esme whispered against my hair. I gently sucked the skin on her neck, eliciting a little gasp from her which melted into a brief, whispery laugh. "I don't like waiting," she confessed secretively, as if I did not already know this about her.

"Waiting is all _you and I _can do," I amended. My soft sigh of regret was muffled by her hair as I buried my chin in the nook between her shoulder and neck. "The rest we must leave up to them."

A pause followed this, during which I was certain Esme was silently critiquing my current handle on the situation.

"You sound as if you don't like that very much," she said, surprising me slightly with her mildly amused tone.

"I confess that I'm not...entirely comfortable with it." I grasped her waist briefly then pulled back slowly to look into her eyes, searching for her reaction. She did not look angry or upset or even confused by my revelation. Instead, she carried in her gaze an aura of utmost calmness, even contentment.

"What is that Latin phrase you like to use sometimes?" she asked me, tapping her little fingers on the back of my neck as she awaited my answer.

"_Sola fide_?"

She smiled. "Yes, that one." Her hand soothingly stroked the back of my neck, her eyes glinting in the new light of the stars. "Have faith, Carlisle. That's what you're always telling me. Now is the time to take comfort in your own advice."

It delighted me how wise Esme could be, often when I was least expecting it from her. So many times I felt all hope was lost, and she was the one who pounced from the shadows to save me. There were many who would believe her to be weak, but they could not have been more wrong about her. Esme was very deceptive; she had never been shy about that with me. She was a sweet face on the outside, but her loyalty was brutal, and her instincts were ripe. From the moment I took her into my home and taught her the ways of this lifestyle, she had been changing **– **a slow, radiant transformation. Before I knew it, my shy, submissive, uncertain Esme had blossomed into a bold, brave, beautiful protector.

If I was a shepherd, she was a shepherdess. I had always believed Esme to be my equal in every way, but she had surprised me with how quickly she had adapted to her many roles role in this life. She was a mother to our children, and my devoted wife, but she was also her own woman. There was no order for these facets; they each sparkled just as brightly as the others. If she felt she failed at one, she would break. If she succeeded in all, she felt whole. I felt it was my duty to help her keep her balance, always.

Her balancing skills were improving quite rapidly. I sometimes worried that she no longer needed to hold my hand for guidance. But I knew she would always ask for me, even if she had come to a point in her life where she needed no one. She would always desire me. And this I considered to be my greatest blessing.

Such thoughts led my heart to bubble over with emotion, and the sensation tingled in my lips, needing to be quenched by hers. She saw the need in my eyes, and before I knew it she was kissing me, drinking from my soul as I drank from hers. And in that simplest union of gestures, we were one.

"I love you," she whispered. No matter how many times she said the words, and in no matter what context she said them, they never failed to light a soothing fire in my chest.

I nuzzled her forehead as the taste of her venom faded on my quenched tongue. "I love you, too, sweetheart."

She sighed and took my hands in hers, leading me back into the house. Alice, Jasper, and Edward were all out hunting, which left us alone in the house with Rose and Emmett for the evening. As peaceful as the night had been thus far, it was clear that they were now prepared to need some extended time alone.

Esme caught my eye unsurely as we entered the second level hall, adorably frightened to continue any further.

"Let's go back outside," I suggested, softly enough not to disrupt anything, but loud enough that they would know we were leaving.

"Should we go all the way to the top of the hill again?" Esme asked, a tinge of excitement flavoring her whisper as we rushed out the back door.

The last time we had ventured to the very top of the hill behind our house, we'd discovered a clearing with a beautiful view of the mountainside which overlooked a steep valley. Esme had taken her sketchbook there several times since to render the stunning scene on paper, and though she did not know it, I had also written about the place in my journal.

I knew she had been wanting to see it again, but I had not set aside the time to take her there. Recently, things had been rather hectic.

"Yes, let's go," I agreed, just as enthused at the prospect of seeing our secret place again.

"Carry me."

I looked over at my wife in surprise. "What?"

"I want you to carry me," she repeated, clutching my bicep beneath my jacket sleeve. Her whispered demand was quite appealing, but it left me confused. She usually would have asked to race me up the hill instead.

Esme sheepishly ducked her head when I caught her eye, noticing my puzzled expression. "When I watched Edward carrying Bella on his back, I couldn't help but want that again."

I smiled stealthily at her endearing explanation.

"I'm more than happy to carry you, darling." I bent slightly to help fit her onto my back. Her slender arms wrapped tightly around my chest, and her legs even tighter around my waist.

"Hold on," I whispered over my shoulder before racing up the side of the hill into the naked gloom of the deep forest. Supporting Esme's weight as I ran filled me with a delightful burst of virility that I'd grown to associate with far more intimate interactions.

It was easy to forget that I was _not_ rushing towards our bedroom, and I was only slightly disappointed when I came to the pinnacle of the steep hill and found only a barren stretch of long grass instead.

But a bed of grass was still a bed.

I grinned madly as Esme slipped off my back and tumbled gracefully into the windswept weeds. The silence up here was deafening, giving every sound we made a rich and resounding definition. I could just imagine how delicious the sounds of our lovemaking would be on such a quiet night...

Various distracting streams of thought tangled in my head as I fell to my knees after my wife, stalking her like a panther in the flowing sea of tall grass. Her bare ankles teased me before she quickly scurried away, hiding easily in the dark foliage.

After a few frustrating seconds of swimming through the weeds, I blindly caught hold of her foot and gave a gentle tug, letting her know that I had won this game. She let out a sharp, ticklish giggle before collapsing submissively into the grass.

She curled up in a soft spot, leaving room for me to settle beside her. A breeze swept past and scattered some pine needles onto her skirt, which she brushed away casually. The strong pine aroma was strangely arousing... Then again, perhaps it was only because those pesky pine needles had fallen directly into my wife's lap.

I planned to fall directly into that very same place soon enough.

"Lie down with me," she invited, her eyes closed as if she were talking in her sleep.

I obeyed her nonetheless, finding a comfortable position for my head so that I could stare up at the star encrusted sky. The night was cool, even more so at this altitude, but I decided it was a good kind of chill. My hand casually felt around for the buckle of my belt and I quickly unlatched it, allowing me to un-tuck my shirt. I saw my wife glance down at the sound, a fleeting look of stealthy fondness written on her features when she realized the discreet change I had made to my appearance.

I took in a long breath, swallowing in the sweet, earthy atmosphere. It seemed all the tension that had built up inside of me over the past week was released in that one cleansing breath. I felt like a new man. Suddenly everything was as crystal clear as the sky above us.

"It's so peaceful up here," Esme said after a minute or two of thoughtful silence.

"Mmhm," I mumbled my agreement, tucking one arm behind my head as I wrapped the other around hers. She adjusted her body to fit closer to mine, using my bicep as a pillow.

"Things are going to change," I murmured after a little bit, gazing trustingly up at the stars. "I've felt it for a while now."

"I think I have, too," she responded quietly, tucking her hand comfortably beneath my backside. I smiled to myself and let my legs fall casually apart in the grass.

"And now Alice has been saying she has seen Bella with us... That she may one day be a part of our family," I added in hushed tones, even though no one could possibly hear us all the way up here.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful, Carlisle?"

My wife's voice was full of joy and wonder. I knew she was imagining it behind those closed eyes – our family, complete at long last.

I turned my head to stare down at her peaceful smile. "Yes, it would."

"Imagine how happy that would make Edward, to finally have a mate of his own," she went on, her smile wavering as her eyelashes fluttered at the visions in her mind. She cuddled closer to me and sighed. "Oh, I so desperately want that for him."

A broad smile crossed my lips. Esme only ever thought about others before herself, and I knew Edward's happiness was even more important to her than her own. "I know you do," I whispered back, affectionately tracing the soft angles of her face.

Her eyes popped open with sudden excitement, causing my smile to widen.

"And you know something else?" she asked me in a hushed voice.

I leaned closer, anticipating that she would spill some shocking secret.

"Hm?"

Her eyes sparkled slyly under the starlight as she whispered scandalously, "I've secretly been wanting to have another daughter in our family."

I chuckled deeply at the unexpected confession. "Oh?"

"Yes, you know, to balance things out," she attempted to explain, gesturing animatedly with her hands in the air as she stared up at the sky. "We've had three boys for so long, but only two girls. Having Bella around... It feels so...right."

The light in her eyes spun delightedly as she stared off into the distant heavens, a dreamy smile on her face. Sometimes I thought Esme was worse than Edward when she thought of Bella.

"Do you think she was meant to be for him?" I asked, gently touching my hand to her heart to emphasize the seriousness of my question.

Esme turned her head down to stare at my hand before smiling and covering it with her own.

"Absolutely."

I exhaled quietly and nestled my head closer to hers in the grass. "I've thought so, too," I said. "I can see it when I look at his eyes, whenever he talks about her. It's almost as if he's afraid that he is in danger of losing her, yet there is such wonder there."

I felt the silky strands of Esme's hair slip across my cheek as she nodded. "Edward has never known love the way the rest of us have. I can't even imagine what that must have been like for him."

"I can," I whispered, the centuries I'd spent alone in my past coming back to haunt my thoughts with just one brief mention. I wondered now whether it was worse to have been in my position, never knowing what true love was like but being alone; or to be in Edward's position, knowing exactly what love could be like, but never having it. Instead, Edward had that taunting taste of true love thrust in his face every day, trapped as the only one in our coven who had no mate to call his own.

Esme's hand crept reassuringly onto my shoulder. "Soon we'll all be content where we are. I can just feel it."

"But I fear it won't be an easy road before we get there," I said softly.

"Then we'll take it as it comes," she said simply. "One step at a time."

"And have faith," I added, suggestively touching the corner of her lips.

"Yes. Faith." She nodded and smiled impishly. "_Sola fide_," she whispered against my jaw.

I chuckled as she pulled my face towards hers for a long, deep kiss.

"We should come up here every night," she sighed, and as she tangled her fingers roughly in my hair, I found her proposal slightly more appealing.

"The others would start to wonder why we always smelled like pine sap in the evenings," I said gruffly, swiping away another handful of pine needles that had landed on my shirt.

She laughed freely as I raised myself up above her body, laying gentle kisses on her velvet skin from her chin to her cheek.

"It's been a while," she whispered throatily, the deeper meaning in her simple words sending a prickling stream of pleasant energy straight into the pit of my stomach.

"Has it?" I desperately hoped I did not sound insensitive, but my mind had drawn a genuine blank at the look in her eyes.

Slowly, she touched each of my fingertips in turn, counting the days it had been since we had last reserved time alone for being intimate. When her finger came to rest on the baby finger of my left hand, I stared up at her in slight shock.

"Ten?" I asked.

She nodded with a lazy, distant sort of smile.

"That isn't so long," I teased her with a shrug, rolling away from her in the grass.

"That's _days_; not _hours, _Doctor," she growled softly, grabbing hold of my shoulders with an impressive grip as she pinned me to the ground. My chest lurched with excitement under her slight weight as I pretended to squirm for escape.

"I think it's about time for us to go home now," she hissed into my ear.

"I disagree," I purred, grasping her waist firmly so she had nowhere to go. "Let's stay up here for the rest of the night."

"You're ridiculous," she laughed, shaking her head. "What if someone sees us?"

"No one else could possibly climb this high, Esme. Look how far up we are," I told her, gesturing to the edge of the cliff that overlooked the valley. "We're practically in heaven," I added in a seductive whisper. Her reaction to this observation was especially favorable, but I could still see a lingering doubt in her eyes.

I knew deep down Esme was adventurous, it just took a little gentle persuasion to encourage her to take the risk.

"Are you sure no one will see us?" she asked once more with a nervous glance around.

"Only the angels up there," I teased, tilting my head towards the sky above us.

She pushed my shoulder with a shaky laugh. "Don't say things like that. You'll make me even more nervous."

I smiled in sly confusion. "Why are you nervous?"

She sighed theatrically as she nudged her knee against my lower stomach. "Ten days of separation can do that to a woman."

I chuckled a bit sinisterly at that, wrapping one hand around the back of her head to draw her closer to my face. "We both know _exactly_ how many times we've done this, Esme," I breathed deeply against her throat. "I don't think there's any reason to be nervous."

"Not even with the angels watching?"

"I'll make sure they're entertained."

"Carlisle!" she hissed my name, admonishing me with a less than forceful swat to my arm, which I graciously ignored.

When I caught sight of her face I saw that she was smiling widely.

"You're too beautiful to resist," I murmured sincerely, pausing above her while my hand crept discreetly beneath her blouse.

"You're too romantic to resist," she replied, her gaze glittering adoringly up at me.

"Shall we, then?" I breathed into her ear, barely able to wait for her reply before I deftly unlatched the clasp on her bra.

"It looks as though you've already made up your mind," she said, curving her back to give me further access as I began to undress her.

The crinkly whisper of her clothing was unignorable in the stifling silence of our hiding place. The sounds, though not sensual at all in any other context, were delightfully arousing to me given our present circumstances. Before I knew it, her blouse was off, laying somewhere beside us in the moist grass.

The sight of her must have startled the stars, for they suddenly seemed to shine brighter when the generous expanse of her pale velvet skin was revealed. I bowed my head and allowed my lips to reverently embrace the soft pink tip of one breast. She moved beneath me, moaning softly as I stroked my tongue across her chest, patiently dressing her in glistening trails of my venom.

While she was distracted I slipped my hands inside her skirt and slowly tugged at the slim, silky piece of fabric that clung to her hips. My mouth curved into a half-smile as I dragged the pale purple silk past her toes and carefully pushed her legs apart.

I felt the muscles around my waist begin to tense, the familiar twisting of arousal beginning deep in my groin as she lifted her skirt – the only piece of clothing she still wore – and revealed herself to me.

One slender leg stretched out to rub against my side, consciously shifting the fabric of my shirt until her toes found my skin beneath. She disliked being undressed when I was not.

"Don't be so shy now, Doctor."

"I'm not being shy," I whispered darkly, my body seizing with the urge to show her just how _not shy _I was.

Standing up to my full height, I stepped out of my shoes and began to slowly peel the layers of my clothing away for her, one by one.

There was something so very sensual about undressing outside. I supposed it was where we were intended to be, in the very bosom of Mother Nature herself. There was nothing more flattering than the heady weight of Esme's admiring gaze. Being watched so intently by her made me feel, quite plainly, beautiful. She stared at me as if I were a work of art, as if she were searching for symbolism and emotion and history in the many details of my body.

The gentleness of the starlight was soothing as it illuminated my flesh in a way that was delicate and not harsh. It reminded me of candlelight, the way it only revealed half the secrets of my flesh; the other half it left to be discovered through touch and sensation alone. The scents of nature were comforting around me, making me feel utterly at home in the forest at night. The strong, tall presence of the tree behind me made me feel protected, offering its shade to us should we feel the sudden need to hide from the stars.

A firm wave of arousal hit me as I noticed Esme's hand moving discreetly closer to her lap while she watched me undress. It was obvious how much she desired me; no doubt as obvious as my desire for her.

Which was painfully obvious.

After two aching minutes of picking buttons and undoing zippers, I finally slid my pants past my ankles and pushed them aside with my foot. My dead heart felt as if it were thudding violently again as I stood nude before my wife, hands at my sides, hiding nothing. The moist night air felt like a thin, silky sheet around my naked flesh, and as our gazes locked in the darkness, I wanted nothing more than to share that sensation with her.

Esme's eyes were worshipful as they caressed my body from head to toe, lingering boldly on certain parts that were bound to command her attention more than others. Her fingers fiddled impatiently with the fabric of her skirt where it lay crumpled above her exposed lap. I could see her glistening flesh beneath the shadows, and it beckoned me to step forward, my desire beating harshly inside my belly.

"There is...a bit of a chill in the air," I noted in a gruff but quiet voice, barely concealing the shiver that ran through me as Esme's eyes glinted in agreement.

"Then we should stay close to keep warm," she offered, extending a hand toward me as I made my slow approach.

Immediately I sank into the tall grass, kneeling between her legs. In a few seconds I had rid her of the irritable skirt and delighted in the bareness of her midriff laid out before my hungry eyes.

I placed a trail of insatiable kisses from her navel down to the inside of her thighs, brushing tendrils of grass away when they tried to disrupt my journey. Her thighs quivered when I touched them, her hips lifting invitingly from the ground.

Unable to resist the sweetness of her femininity, I cradled her hips in my hands and brought my lips to the center of her lap. The taste of her was familiar, hot on my tongue as I gently explored her depths.

I heard her whisper my name a few times, but each whisper she uttered was lost to the fog that filled my preoccupied mind. In the silence of our setting, the strokes of my tongue would have been quite audible even to a human's ears. Esme's panting barely masked the soft, slick song of my ministrations, and knowing she listened as well fanned the flames of my desire even more.

Her legs twitched weakly on either side of me while I kissed her sensitive flesh, and her arms slid around me like desperate vines, wrapping tightly about my shoulders, trying to pull me nearer.

I filled her embrace by raising myself up above her, the taste of her still lingering on my lips as I bent down to kiss her mouth. The conflicting flavors burst between our dueling tongues, the bittersweet spice of our venom clashing deliciously as I deepened the kiss.

She rested her head back against the grass and stared up at me, smiling distantly, her eyes captivated beneath my shadow. She reached up with her flawless fingers and slid them carefully over my face, with the same delicate touch she used when tending to the seedlings in her garden. A flashback of our first night together arose in my thoughts, effortlessly blending with the present moment. I was reminded of the first time she touched me so intimately; how her tenderness had almost brought me to tears.

Leaning into her touch, I sighed and closed my eyes. Even without looking at her I could sense her expression as she watched me. I knew when I opened my eyes again she would be beaming that faint, lopsided smile, and the love that filled her gaze would prod that very weak hidden spot deep in my stomach.

My eyes fluttered open, and I was right.

I bent slightly to dust gentle kisses upon her brow. She fidgeted in my grasp, rubbing my sides with her eager and experienced hands. I watched as she slid her palms down my hips, moving with perfect grace and precision as if she were smoothing out a panel of silk. Her eyes locked onto mine as her warm hand encased my aching length and gently began to stroke me back and forth.

I panted as she caressed me, and the glossy threads of long green grass caressed her body as she moved. My hips bucked against her, each teasing thrust spilling more darkness into her lusty gaze.

The graceful yet feral way our bodies could move never failed to intrigue me. I never felt more alive, nor more intensely connected to my mate than I did in the deep, dark heart of nature. The grass waved against us, tracing unidentifiable shapes on our bare skin as we rolled over one another in a tender battle for dominance.

I let my wife win the battle, pleased as much by her victory as I would have been for my own. She smiled in that way that managed to be both devious and sweet, twisting her fingers in my hair and kissing my jaw and neck as she slid her hips against mine. Her breasts were soft and pink against the hard white planes of my chest, sending streaks of warmth through me with every violently pleasurable caress. My hands swept over the smoothness of her back, coming down slowly to cup the softness of her bottom, guiding her closer to me.

Her mouth descended upon my shoulder, sucking the unyielding skin as if her life depended on it. Her thirsty lips traveled down the length of my arm until she reached my elbow. She grasped my arm in her hands and gently bit down on my wrist, grazing her teeth over each vulnerable finger.

I watched her innocently suck my fingertips one by one until I could take no more. With a rough grunt, I turned her beneath me in one quick flash, flattening the fluttering strands of grass beneath her body. She smiled faintly at me, her eyes filled with approval as I breathed hard above her. I could see that she was intent upon encouraging the animal within me, and I did nothing to stop her.

With surprising calmness, she reached over and took my hand, guiding me down beside her in the grass. She turned seductively onto her side, allowing me to press myself flush against her glorious backside. Throwing one curvy little leg back over my hip, she tugged me closer until I was all but buried inside of her. With one tender push I linked our bodies from behind and wrapped my arms firmly around her front, hugging her to me as I began a quick rhythm.

I knew I had reached the deepest spot inside of her when she cried softly and reached back to grasp my hair with her hand. Excitement spurred me to love her even more mercilessly, licking the back of her neck while I thrust into her.

My fingers blindly sought the precious pleasure spot between her legs, furiously prodding her in time with each stroke until she exploded in my arms. I nestled my face in her soft curls of hair, breathing in her essence as she lost control. My fingers continued to touch her gently while she fluttered and clenched around me, and it was purely too much for me to take.

At last I met the menacing crescendo of my desire, releasing myself from the bonds of my impeccable restraint to join her in the sweet harmony of our ecstasy. The silence of our secluded spot ensured that every sound we uttered echoed through the forest and back. I smiled weakly at Esme's intimate exclamations as I shuddered into stillness behind her.

I withdrew from her slowly, making her feel every inch as I gently chewed the wonderful curve of her neck. I reached down between us, feeling the exquisite slickness and warmth we had gathered, purely from our love for one another. I vaguely thought back to the words my wife had whispered earlier that evening... _how something so beautiful can come from nothing. _

There had been a time long ago, as hard as it was to believe, where both of us felt that the world had given us nothing. But now we had found each other, and the love we had created together was the most beautiful miracle either of us would ever witness.

I watched with wonder as Esme reached back and touched my hand where it lingered against my lap. Her fingers entwined with mine, deliciously damp as she took my hand and brought it to rest back against her stomach.

My body relaxed at last into our bed of grass, soothed by the whispering wind and the bathing light of the stars. All I needed to feel safe and loved was the touch of my wife, and I was confident I could find contentment anywhere in this world.

I smiled at the thought of what would happen if we were to stay here until the sun rose. A small note of humor sounded from my throat, and Esme carefully squeezed my hand, the gentle pressure understood as a silent inquiry to the nature of my thoughts.

"I want us to lie here together all through the night until morning comes... and we're positively drowning in dew," I said deviously.

She erupted in a soft flurry of giggles beside me, making my heart flutter pleasantly.

"That sounds surprisingly wonderful," she whispered back, a mirthful glimmer in her eye as she looked over her shoulder at me.

As we laid together in the grass, I placed my hand in the curve of her narrow waist, caressing her like a worry stone. When the moon slid behind the new clouds, shrouding our bodies in darkness, I pondered the decisions we had yet to make, the lines our family had yet to cross. Earlier that evening my mind was a whirlwind, but now it was nothing more than a gentle stir, like an ocean calming after a troublesome storm.

I wrapped my arms around my wife in a faithful circle as I considered the rough road we had ahead of us...and I finally felt at peace with it.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter. :)**


	10. Pink

_The first part of this chapter is a flashback to a moment from Esme's childhood in which she first confides in another person about her feelings for the strange Doctor Cullen. In the second part, Esme tells Carlisle about the recent memory while they enjoy an afternoon alone in their garden._

* * *

**Inspired by Pink**

**Medium: Petals on Pillows**

* * *

_June 1912_

_~Esme_

"Can you believe we'll be out of school in just twenty days?" Agatha's voice came from beside me in the grass. The weeds around her head were so high, I could see nothing of her profile. She lifted one of her thick, dark braids and twirled it around her finger in the air. Her nearly black hair was frayed from the late spring humidity, and I imagined mine looked no better.

"No, I can't believe it," I admitted. My mind still could not grasp the idea that my life was supposed to begin after I was released from finishing school. Years of torture would give way to years of frantic searching **–** on the part of my mother and father **–** for a proper suitor.

That, I was not looking forward to.

Agatha was the only girl in my class I had grown to trust; really, she was the only other human being in my life I had ever fully trusted. She had been a newcomer late in the year, and was surprisingly unfazed by much of the teasing she had been made to endure for her mother's Native American heritage. Unlike the rest of my snobbish classmates, I had liked Agatha right away. She was pretty in an exotic way, and part of me envied as well as admired her for that. She was tall, more mature in frame, and curvier than I was **–** a perfect contrast to me in every way, physically. But she was so easy to talk to.

I sighed. "I suppose I should be happy to be leaving school, but you know what is going to happen to us now."

Agatha was silent for a moment. "Oh."

I craned my head to see a portion of her hidden face. "Are your parents arranging a marriage for you?"

She crinkled her bronze brow. "I've heard them discuss it before, but they've never really spoken to me about it yet. At least not at length."

"Hm." I reclined back into our carpet of ferns, lost in my own worries.

"What about you?" she asked.

I snorted. "I've not so much as spoken to a boy my age, much less been courted by someone."

"But you have fallen for someone before, haven't you?" she asked cryptically, her voice hushed.

"All girls our age have at least once." I giggled flippantly, trying to keep the conversation casual for my own sake. I was still recovering from the single, blinding image that had surfaced in my mind the second the words left her mouth.

A pair of deep golden eyes gazed back at me from beneath a gentle yet noble brow, tenderly piercing my young soul. The instant I blinked, the sight vanished from my imagination, replaced by the empty blue sky above me.

There was a long pause, and I wondered if Agatha had chosen to drop the subject. But then her voice floated to me, through the grassy barrier between us.

"What did he look like?"

I thanked the stars that my face was well hidden from her sight, in my protective patch of dandelions. A fresh fever of excited blood pinkened my already ruddy cheeks.

_How did one even begin to answer such a question?_

"He was..." I swallowed over the words, finding them inexplicably hard to say aloud for some reason. "...blond."

I could hear the scandalous smile in her voice as she asked, "Was he handsome?"

_Such an inadequate word._

"Yes," I breathed, finding my mouth uncomfortably dry. My heart threatened to race at sinful speeds. I could not believe I was talking about this in the open.

"When did you meet him?"

"When I was sixteen." I subconsciously rubbed my right leg as I told her a brief version of the story. "I broke my leg and he treated me. He was a doctor."

"Oh." She sounded surprised, as I had expected she would be. "He must have been a fair bit older than you were."

"But he really wasn't. He was...young." My voice drifted dreamily at the recollection. I had come to the conclusion on my own after months of deliberation that he could not have been very far in age from me. There was no way a face so utterly flawless could have belonged to someone a day over thirty.

"A doctor," she mused, sounding vaguely impressed.

_A doctor._

I smiled somewhat wickedly to myself. He was much more than just a doctor. If only she knew.

"What was his name?"

I wasn't expecting that question. My throat struggled with the name I had not once dared to say above my breath in the presence of another.

"Doctor Cullen."

I had never realized how beautiful it sounded when I said it in full volume; and not only how beautiful it sounded, but how beautiful it...felt. The flowers around me trembled in the breeze, brushing my skin with their petals as if to coax more details from me.

I bit my lip and curled my hands around my knees, holding my skirt in place as the wind picked up.

"Do you still think about him?" my friend whispered secretively. I'd almost forgotten she was there.

It was ridiculous how giddy I became just from talking about Doctor Cullen. It was the first time I had truly ever discussed him with another person, and I felt strange sharing him with someone else. It made him seem more real, in a way. Like he hadn't been just a figment of my imagination for all these years.

"There is someone I think about too," she confessed in her slightly stiff accent, not sounding as half as bashful as I had.

"Who is he?" I asked, not out of curiosity, but just to seek distraction from my own possessing thoughts.

"Not a doctor," she laughed.

I chuckled demurely. "No, I thought not."

"But he is someone I know I can never have," she said miserably. "Don't you despise that feeling?"

"You have no idea just how much." I stared wistfully up at the sky, unmoved by the way the clouds seemed to form taunting figures of faceless couples in unmentionable positions.

"I have to go," Agatha interrupted suddenly, and jumped to her feet. "My parents will be wondering where I am. I'm already late for supper."

She was off and running before I could even sit up. "Oh...Goodbye!"

She waved to me over her shoulder as she raced through the high grass to the other side of the field behind my house. She ran so fast.

I dropped back into the grass and coughed lightly on a cloud of dandelion seeds.

That was when it all sunk in, that I had actually spoken aloud about Doctor Cullen to another girl. He was always the unspeakable fantasy in the back of my mind, a fantasy that no other woman could possibly imagine unless she had encountered him in real life before.

Talking about him made me realize how distant my memories of him actually were. He had grown to be merely a pleasant drone in the background of my thoughts **– **always there, but somehow more distant than he had been a year prior.

It was frustrating to try and recall his face from memory. I remembered his key features, but it was difficult to try and piece them together to make one image. And even when I felt I was getting close, the resulting face was never as accurate or as vivid as I hoped it to be.

I had forgotten almost every detail about him. His scent, especially, I only remembered to have driven me wild when I breathed in his presence. It had been cold, crystalline, painfully sweet. How I longed to inhale that precious fragrance once more.

I remembered the way he had looked at me, like I was the only person who mattered in his world. His kindness was an aura that filled every corner of my heart. His generous nature and compassionate eyes were more fit for an angel than a man of the earth.

But my deepest regret had been that I had completely forgotten his voice. I only remembered that it made me feel achy and tingly when he spoke, when he had whispered to me in the dim room as he worked to fix my broken leg.

But I could not summon the exact reverberations of his lilt as I had been able to do a year ago. I only wished to hear it once more. I was convinced that if I had one more chance to listen to just one word spoken in his voice, I vowed to remember it forever.

No other man would affect me so deeply, I was sure of this. Even from a young age, my heart had already been grasped by this mysterious doctor. I knew that the years ahead would erase even more of my memories of him as they passed by. Though I'd only known him for one night, I could not help but feel that I was slowly but surely losing my dearest friend. I knew that the memories I had of his visit would grow dimmer and dimmer every day, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

******-}0{-**

_May 2003_

"Do you know the first time I spoke about you to anyone, I was eighteen years old?" I asked my husband, burying my fingers in the thick carpet of flowers surrounding us outside.

"Really?" Carlisle peered up at me, tipping his head back where he rested in my lap.

I nodded. "I was in finishing school at the time. I told one of my classmates about you."

After having a moment more to think on it, he scrunched his eyebrows together. "How can you remember that?" he asked, delicately confounded.

"I don't know," I murmured, staring up at the clouds in wonder. "Somehow it resurfaced after all these years." I paused to look around at the beauty of nature surrounding us. "But in my memory, I was laying in the grass with flowers all around me, just like we are now."

"That must have been what reminded you," he said thoughtfully.

"I suppose it was."

He reached up to stroke my cheek with a distant smile. "So you told your friend all about me, did you?"

"I forgot to tell her how closely you resembled an angel," I whispered fondly.

Bothered by being equated with heavenly hosts, my husband pulled his eyes away, and his lips firmed in refute.

He sighed submissively as my fidgety little hands guided his head back down to lay against my thigh. I leaned comfortably against the bark of the apple tree behind us and gazed down at his beautiful face in utter contentment. He was peaceful of countenance here, his ivory skin shimmering with brilliant pinpoints of crystalline color, and the sheen of his blond hair glowing deliciously in the broad light of day that we so rarely got to see.

"You look like an angel."

"You just said that, darling," he chuckled bashfully, averting his gleaming eyes to my hand above his heart.

"Well, it should be said more than once."

He shook his head infinitesimally, the silk of his hair brushing against my hand.

"My God, you're so beautiful," I whispered in awe-filled reverence. My lips broke into an embarrassed smile when he gaped at me in perfectly amused defense.

"My dear, you must stop that before there are no compliments left for _me_ to give _you_."

I giggled helplessly. "That would never be possible." I tapped his nose teasingly with my baby finger. "Besides, you've been so quiet lately, I doubt that would be a problem."

He looked curiously up at me, squinting under the harsh rays of sun. "Have I really?"

"Mm hmm." My fingers threaded daintily through his soft, sun-kissed hair.

"I'm sorry."

"Hush." I lightly tapped the center of his chest with my palm in feigned reprimand.

"Then I shall go back to being quiet," he said dismissively, dropping his gaze even as I continued to affectionately stroke the gold locks from his forehead. I giggled lightly and leaned back against the tree.

"I love the spring," I sighed wistfully and discreetly slipped my hand into Carlisle's open collar to caress the smooth skin beneath.

"So do I," he agreed softly, flicking away a stray leaf that had landed on his arm.

"Although I prefer autumn to all the seasons."

"Not autumn!" I gasped in mock outrage.

"Yes, autumn." He chuckled at my reaction, still staring down at my hand in his collar.

"But why?"

"Because it's still warm, but cloudy enough that I don't have to hide every day."

"You aren't hiding now," I pointed out coyly as the sun shone upon his glistening skin.

"Should I be?" he questioned innocently, finally sparing me a glance. His yellow eyes twinkled suggestively.

"If you even dare to lift my skirt up right now, I'll have your head, Carlisle Cullen."

He laughed richly, and I greedily savored the sound as it echoed around us.

"I'd say you already have my head, madam." He nestled his head more languidly into my lap, gazing up at me with deeply amused eyes.

"Indeed." I grinned and framed his face between my hands to gently press his cheeks in. I laughed again at his expression as he shook my hands away, pursing his lips in an effort not to smile.

I sighed in a sing-song fashion and picked up a small green apple that had fallen beside me on the ground. With a mischievous grin, I dangled the fruit above his mouth, pinching the stem between my two forefingers and spinning it lightly. "I dare you..."

"I decline your offer, Eve," he teased slyly, and lifted his palm in time for when I dropped the apple, making the catch before it collided with his mouth.

I cackled lovingly as he gave the fruit a look of lazy distaste and let it tumble from his hand into the grass beside his leg.

My hands happily assumed their previous placement one at his collar and one at the top of his head and he closed his eyes as I continued my generous caresses. He brought one sculpted hand up to rest against his belly and tucked his other wrist behind his head above my thigh. I watched his endearingly youthful contentment as he lay still and sparkling in my lap. I knew this picture would always be in my mind, but I wished that the moment would not have to end.

My eyes traveled briskly past his hips, over the lean lines of his right leg where it lay loosely in the high grass, and I smiled when my eyes came to rest on his clean, bare white feet. My fond gaze followed the bent knee of his left leg and up again to his waist, where his shirt was just begging to be untucked. How my husband could manage to remain so tidy even after hours of frolicking in a windy orchard was forever beyond me.

Without really thinking about my actions, I let my left hand slip down the front of his shirt and paused decidedly over his belt. He did not even blink as I carefully tugged the fabric from beneath his trousers. I reached around the side of his waist to untuck the other end, then leaned back again with a satisfied smirk when he looked properly disheveled.

"Why did you do that?" he asked softly, eyes still shut, his lips showing no hint of a smile.

"You looked a bit too 'buttoned-up' given our setting, doctor," I said quietly, curling my finger affectionately around his chin until I saw the telltale twitch in his dimpled cheek.

His eyes opened suddenly, startling me with their piercing gold.

"What?" I chirped defensively, my cheeks heating under his intense gaze.

"What, what?"

"You're staring." I smiled self-consciously.

He raised both eyebrows. "Am I not allowed to stare at my beautiful wife?"

Despite the deep effect his words had on my heart, I shook my head playfully, still in a helplessly teasing mood. "No, you are not."

His crestfallen expression nearly undid me, and I held in what would have been an unladylike guffaw as I promptly covered his eyes with my palm.

His lips curled into a full smile while his eyes remained hidden tightly under my hand. He begged me to uncover him, but I did not comply even as the tender golden gaze I hid remained sorely missed.

"You're so cruel, Esme," he whimpered, knowing I could do little to resist him when he used that tone.

"Nonsense," I whispered happily, leaning down to kiss his sweet pout. He kissed me back with eager need, and I sighed reluctantly as I broke the kiss, finally letting my hand slip from his eyes.

His eyes were a burnt orange color in the light when he looked up at me, his smile almost relieved. "You look even prettier now."

I bit my lip sheepishly and averted my gaze, fiddling with the button of his collar.

"Don't you think you've undignified my appearance enough already?" He quirked one eyebrow as his eyes flickered to the button that had conveniently come undone between my busy fingers.

"My fingers have a hidden agenda, I would say," I murmured flirtatiously, making no efforts to discontinue my incessant picking at the second and third buttons.

"What would that agenda consist of, love?"

I sighed throatily. "We'll just need to wait and find out."

He smirked almost nervously up at me as I efficiently undid the next two buttons, and moved swiftly onto the fourth just before he caught my hand to pause the eager motions of my fingers.

"Are you certain your fingers understand the consequences of their actions?"

I swallowed thickly at the intense glint in his darkening eyes and nodded slowly. "I believe they do."

"Esme..." he murmured groggily as I slipped the rest of his buttons through the slits and left his shirt to hang loosely about his chiseled chest.

I watched the rise and fall of his lungs for a moment as the breeze fluttered the cotton fabric of his shirt, revealing a heavenly landscape of diamond-dusted muscle.

"That's better," I sighed, teasing the ends of his hair until the fine strands slipped freely between my fingers.

He grasped my free hand and held it longingly against his stomach, but my fingers worked loose from his grip to dance along his midriff until he shifted restlessly beneath my touch.

His lips parted and he released a long exhale, letting his head turn against my belly. I shivered as the breaths he dispelled fluttered across my stomach, through my thin dress. The movements of my fingers slowed, distracted.

"Don't stop that... I like it," he whispered, tickling my idle fingers encouragingly. I was eager to continue, trying not to think about the warmth of his breath so close to my lap.

"How likely is it that someone will cross through our yard within the next few hours?" I questioned vaguely, knowing he would quickly catch onto my intended concerns.

"Not likely, I would think **– **though still very possible," he added with a hint of warning, followed by a well-crafted pause. "Why do you ask?"

I peeked down at his face to make out the slight beginnings of a smile on his lips.

"I was just curious about the risk...that's all," I answered cryptically, calmly stroking the relaxed lines of his eyebrows.

"Ah, the risk," he murmured softly, tucking the weight of his head more firmly against my midriff. All that lay beneath became pleasantly tense, a tender blurring of warm sensations made ripe by his closeness. "I believe I am willing to take a risk once in a while," he whispered thoughtfully, finally closing the short distance to press a chaste kiss to my belly through the fabric of my dress. "Aren't you?"

"Yes," I accepted demurely, waiting for our eyes to meet.

We exchanged a familiar, aching glance, and Carlisle slipped his fingers between my own, inviting me to lose myself in the passion of his hazy topaz eyes.

I was hardly aware of his motions as he lifted his head easily from my lap and twisted his hips to face me properly before dropping a deep kiss on my open lips. My restless hands slipped beneath the sides of his untucked shirt and gripped his flanks, pulling him closer.

I felt his hands wrap around the small of my back, his fingers already beginning to tug patiently at the laces of my dress. My insides fluttered, knowing we were taking a risk, in the middle of the day…outside on a gorgeous spring morning…in broad daylight. I couldn't fool myself; it was delectable.

One of my hands trailed down his stomach to undo the fastenings of his trousers as he broke the kiss, his breath shaky when I lingered. He nibbled gently on my jaw until I was limp in his arms, taking care as he lowered us both into the soft bed of magenta wildflowers, swiftly shrugging his shirt off the rest of the way.

I dragged my hand down the front of his exposed chest and dipped my fingers between the wool fabric of his trousers, teasing the taut, sensitive skin inches below his navel.

His eyes glowed invitingly, half-shut in a slightly sleepy way as I coaxed his head to rest in the sea of pink petals and green grass.

I let my fingertips trail patiently over his lap, my palm enclosing his warmth on the way up again, until I felt him stiffen explicitly within my hand. A shiver of urgency propelled me forward, and I just missed tearing the fabric into shreds as I sought to free him.

His hands tangled gently in my hair as he watched my ravenous display. The soothing motion of his fingers encouraged me to move more slowly, more meticulously. I wanted to take in every detail of what I was doing.

My mouth lowered briefly to the skin beneath his bellybutton and I lightly nibbled my way down, pausing to press a sweet kiss on the strained flesh of his length before I rose again with the intention of tending to his desperate pleas.

My intentions were distracted as a soft breeze fanned our bodies with a wave of delicate pink flower petals. They danced gaily over the grass, tickling our skin and getting caught in our hair. I smiled as Carlisle reached up with one hand to collect several petals that had landed in his golden locks.

He frowned at my irreverent giggling and thrust his hips forcefully against mine as if it were an appropriate form of punishment.

I only grinned and thrust back.

"You're making the flowers blush," I accused, playfully touching two bright petals to each of his cheeks.

He shook his head at me, half purring and half laughing as I slid more snugly into his lap.

Another taunting breeze fluttered the hem of my dress high on my thighs, inviting his hands underneath to stroke their way up to my hips. I dug my fingers into his shoulders as he hooked his fingers around the flimsy garments beneath and slipped them off my legs, tossing them into the flowers with the rest of his clothes.

Both his hands slid sensuously up my sides as he rose from the flower bed, bringing his chest to brush against mine as we mated. His hands held tight, like a steadfast promise around my waist, guiding my movements to match his.

As our hips welded together, our bodies began to sway to the primal rhythm that was all our own. I bent my head down to touch my forehead to his, surrendering myself to a moment so divine and tranquil. Deep inside, I could feel our souls blending effortlessly as we continued to ride the blissful waves of an erotic, unseen ocean.

The sun above us caught our skin over and over again, sending tiny colored reflections flitting all around us. I watched in lazy wonder as the light spread in a blond halo about Carlisle's hair, forever frustrated that he could never see himself this way… how heavenly he looked in the sun.

His face looked so peaceful, so young and innocent, framed by those pesky pink flowers. He was like a moving painting, a porcelain seraph splayed in the garden of love. His golden eyes darkened, and I thought them most befitting for a tainted angel lying in the sunlight. I traced my finger along his lips until his tongue flickered out to taste me. Our eyes met briefly, and his hips summoned mine to dance.

"My Esme," he whispered into my lips, breaking our sudden kiss into several delicious pieces. His kiss was a bit like a stage production, advancing from the first act, to the second, and finally finishing with an exciting climax.

Winded by his kiss, I lifted my head slowly to the sky and shuddered, letting him see the stark effect he had on me. When I looked back down at him, my heart swelled all over again. Staring at his impossibly beautiful face, it was humbling to think that I had dreamed of these very moments so many years ago, when I was still barely a woman.

Now, instead of hiding my blushing face in a bed of flowers, I was making love to the very doctor who had inspired the redness in my childish cheeks.

I was living out my lifelong fantasy. And I was free to do so every day for the rest of forever.

If only I had known back then what my future would hold for me…

The sacred sting of tears filled my eyes as I was overwhelmed by a burst of pleasure, the sound of Carlisle's restless breathing and loving whispers filling my heart with endless appreciation.

His hands tightened desperately around my hips as he secured himself deeply within me and kneaded his fingers into my flesh, a subconscious sculptor with a hidden artistic dream. He became so recklessly passionate when we reached this moment, so wonderfully different from the timidly composed man others knew him to be.

Simply feeling his desperation was more than enough to send me over the edge.

My pinnacle of pleasure was slow and gentle and warm, trickling upward and backwards into my body. I could feel him, thick and stiff; and myself, delicate and fluttering such a beautifully imbalanced contrast between us. My own motions came to a still, even as Carlisle continued to raise my weight with every thrust. I wound my arms around his strong shoulders and gazed drunkenly into his eyes, encouraging him to take me under. In our erotic ocean, I was submerged.

His lips parted with a rush of air as he rolled overtop of me, burying me beneath his warm weight and the tickling tide of windswept wildflowers.

I trembled with delicious aftershocks, my ears delirious as they drank in the soft choke of his breath in the moment he lost control. His hands around my waist slid down, clutching my hips with loving force as he ground the last shudders of pleasure into my depths.

The slow burn of his love resonated far within me, promising to linger long after our bodies were no longer linked.

His eyes closed as he struggled to keep himself upright, and my weak fingertips traveled adoringly across the smooth skin of his forehead, easing the tension there. My hand curled around the back of his neck, and he opened his eyes for me, his lips curved in a shy smile. A dreamy look of speechless adoration claimed his features as he leaned down slowly to join our lips in soft communion.

He pulled away gently, and I reached up with a faint giggle to brush the tiny white dandelion seeds from his rumpled blond waves.

"We wouldn't want flowers growing in your hair, would we, Carlisle?"

His sheepish half-grin made my heart soar, and my hand somehow became lost in his hair.

"Especially not dandelions," he murmured teasingly. "They're actually weeds." He raised one perfect eyebrow.

_Oh, of course. _

I flushed beneath the surface and narrowed my eyes to the task of my busy fingers, still smiling hopelessly.

"Have you gotten them all out?" he humored me.

"I think so," I sighed with one last unnecessary flick of my fingertips through the silky golden strands. "We'll know for sure if nothing sprouts after you've showered."

He laughed again and pressed a pert kiss to the bridge of my nose.

Oh, how I loved the springtime.

******-}0{-**

It was awfully difficult for me to part with my husband on days like this. It frustrated me sometimes that Carlisle found the motivation to attend work every day without fail when he was able. I knew he had the means to provide for our family for the rest of eternity; anyone else would doubt his need to keep up such a façade when he could feign retirement and be free. But I knew better. I knew my husband found joy in helping others, just as I knew he would be incomplete and empty without his work as a doctor.

Telling Carlisle I didn't want him to work anymore would be tantamount to me crushing his heart. It was because of this that I condoned his long hours, and I encouraged his obsessive care for utter strangers. After all, it was this precious behavior that had led him to meet me nearly a century ago.

So I let him continue to save the lives of others, just as he had saved mine.

But even after ninety years, it still hurt a little when he was away.

The sun would usually melt in his absence and refuse to show its light again until he was back home with me. The rest of the day was gray, but my heart was hopeful that afternoon when I walked into our bedroom and found an unexpected gift from my lover.

On my favorite pillow, surrounded by scattered blossoms made from bright pink tissue paper was a note written in peacock blue ink:

_Thanks to you, I am now an expert in the art of making paper flowers. In my efforts to produce at least several fit to your standards, I regret to say I wasted an admirable amount of colored tissue. They are a disastrously delicate craft, my dear. I most certainly could have used your help, __specifically to borrow one extra finger..._

I smiled at the memory as I folded his clever note, admiring the clumsy crafts he had tossed on our bed. Long before we were married, I had taught Carlisle to make paper flowers using one trick that involved borrowing another person's finger to wrap the petals around the stem. At the time, I had no idea that he would tease me mercilessly about that day for ages to come.

He repeatedly claimed that such a trick was "purposefully suggestive" on my part. While I insisted that I had no ulterior intentions in asking for his help, in hindsight it was rather difficult to argue that my request for him to place his finger between paper flower petals did not hold any subconsciously intimate undertones.

My distant smile quickly grew into a smirk.

It looked like our plans for the evening would require a trip to the art supply store. Carlisle hadn't lied when he said he had wasted an admirable amount of tissue paper.

Nevertheless, when he came home that night I would gladly let him borrow my finger...and much more.

* * *

**The scene in which Esme first teaches Carlisle how to make paper flowers can be found in Chapter 20 of my story Stained Glass Soul. **


	11. Silver

**Inspired by Silver**

**Medium: Fire on Frost**

* * *

_December 1957_

_~Carlisle_

In the autumn of 1957, I was invited to a doctor's conference held at Allegheny General in the city of Pittsburgh. Amply relieved upon my arrival to find the weather conveniently gray for a better part of my stay, I began to grow ideas for a future place of residence in the area for my family. I was always easily distracted by the beauty of every new place I visited, and I fell easily into the trap of searching for a place we could move when it became necessary that we relocate ourselves again. Any place of dwelling that was far away from the traffic of society was appealing to me, and so my extensive search led me into the uncharted forests of Somerset county.

The area was ideal, not only for the rich forest life, but its distance from any highly populated towns or cities, which made it a reasonable place for a family of vampires to live. I had visited the county with the intention of buying suitable land where I could build a house that would fit our entire family, but I ended up purchasing a ready-made home, nestled on the top of a mountain in the southwestern part of the state. It was a beautifully rustic log cabin, sturdily built with a handsome façade, surrounded by pine trees and boulders the size of tool-sheds. The only problem with the house itself was that it was a bit too small in size to fit my entire family.

But it was perfect for my wife and me.

That was the first time I'd ever considered purchasing a house in the states for our use alone. Esme was usually interested in the more avant garde homes designed by semi-famous architects whose names were only known to those who were immersed in the field. But when I looked at this cabin, I could envision her falling in love with it as much as I had.

The interior was even more perfect than the exterior. It looked small from the outside, but the use of space on the inside was nothing less than genius. Gaping cathedral ceilings in the living room and bedroom made for a spacious and well planned layout. The fireplace was big enough for a few people to fit inside a quality my wife had always been fond of, regarding fireplaces.

With the intent of surprising her for the upcoming Christmas, I purchased the property and returned home to my family the next weekend, quite proud of my secret gift.

I spent Christmas day that year with the whole family, but on the day after I promised to take my wife to see the one gift that was impossible to fit beneath the tree. Esme's excitement was more than an addiction to me; it was nourishment, something on which I fed hungrily. If I could not provide suspense for her every once in a while I feared that she would become dissatisfied with me...though she assured me hundreds of times that this could never be true.

Still, I sought to please her tremendously whenever possible, often times in a less traditional way. My Esme was wonderfully spontaneous by nature. Even though I usually was not, I believed wholeheartedly that she deserved a certain amount of spontaneity from me.

I knew she was not disciplined enough to resist peeking, so I forced her to ride the entire way in the car with a blindfold across her eyes. She feigned irritation with me, but I knew that deep down she loved being the victim of a good surprise.

I was about to drive her all the way to Pennsylvania, and she had no idea.

As a vampire her senses were keen enough to detect the drop in temperature and the shift in altitude, however slight. It was only a matter of time before she would figure out where I was taking her. Already I was sure she must have had an inkling, but she kindly kept her guesses to herself.

When I reached my destination, I parked my car at the bottom of the mountain and made Esme walk the rest of the way to amplify the suspense. I could see her smile growing as she listened to the ambiance of winter woodlands surrounding her. The path was steep and covered with frost, but she looked so graceful, even being blindfolded. I let her walk on her own for a while until she reached out an unsure hand, fingers fluttering for mine to find.

I held her by the hand for the rest of the way up the mountainside until the roof of the house was just in sight. Thanks to the telltale scents of burning wood, cold pine sap, and freshly fallen snow, her smile quickly turned smug. She had guessed where we were before I gently untied the blindfold from around her head.

"If you have an island in the tropics, then you'll be needing a villa in the mountains," I whispered as her eyes at last drank in the sight. With peaceful snow flurries just beginning to fall, the house could not have looked more picturesque for the moment when Esme first saw it. I had timed it perfectly.

"It's stunning," she sighed, squeezing my hand.

"One day I'll buy you house in the Alps," I promised. Esme liked to dream big, and I liked to indulge her in those dreams. But the fun came in prolonging the inevitable, working up to it slowly over the decades.

She tossed me a cheeky smile before heading eagerly toward the door. "I think this will do just fine for now."

I laughed as I sped after her, hurrying to be the one to let her in.

As impressed as Esme was by the clever interior, the furnishings included in the house were sparse at best. I could already see the cogs spinning in her head for how she could improve upon the house's interior design. Any time I dared to give her a new piece of property, I gave her a new project to take on as well.

For the next two days of our trip, Esme dragged me around the small surrounding villages, searching through family owned antique stores for items to furnish our new vacation home. Her taste was impeccable, and I quickly learned not to be hurt when she turned down several of my suggestions while shopping for lamps and upholstery. Halfway through our expedition, I decided it was best to let her make all the choices.

I let her spend more time than necessary browsing for trinkets that I could have cared less about. Decorating amused Esme perhaps more than anything else, and I would never discourage her from it, even if I did sometimes believe she made it into an obsession. In the end, anything she did was endearing in my eyes. I hadn't the heart to refuse her anything, even the rather eerie looking cuckoo clock she insisted on hanging by the kitchen door.

While Esme fumed over her decision of green or red plaid curtains to cover the windows, I settled instead to decorate the house in a more modest and personal way, using my own handmade carvings to dress the fireplace mantel and the empty table tops throughout the house. It was the safest route to take if I wanted to have some contribution to the interior decor. After all, my artwork was never outdated enough for my wife's taste.

I busied myself morning and night, carving small wooden deer, elk, and birds to make the house seem more alive. Living alone had taught me a lot about the emotional effects of interior design. I still preferred the soft eyes of a sculpted woodland creature on my night table or on my desk while I read. They made me feel more at ease, even with a living, breathing companion by my side.

For our bedroom Esme had bought dark red and green plaid sheets for the bed, matching pillowcases and curtains, a terracotta vase filled with pussy-willow branches, and a tiffany lamp with red reindeer silhouettes painted on the colored glass. She rearranged the heavy mahogany furniture about eight times before she settled on an arrangement she liked. I noticed she had placed my desk by the largest window, precisely where I would have preferred it. But I also noticed that it was close enough to our bed that she could watch me write from a comfortable spot if she so wished. I suspected Esme wasn't as discreet about the placement of her furniture as she thought. I knew there was always a reason behind why she took so long to find a good arrangement for the room.

When Esme was finally finished with the decor, the cabin looked impressively charming in a rustic sort of way. I knew my wife would never be content with a room until it bested the pictures on the covers of the interior design magazines she held in such high regard. I assured her that all she had to do was touch a single piece of furniture in a room for it to be worthy of the cover. She accused me of being biased, but I knew better than to argue. I found the best way to settle any frivolous quarrel between us was with a kiss.

Nonetheless, I thought our joint effort in making the house into our home was very successful, despite the fact that Esme may have gotten a bit too carried away with all of the plaid patterns. I admit I'd gotten just as carried away with my carvings, especially when my wife was already content with the decorating we had done so far.

It seemed once I started on a carving spree I just couldn't stop. The little wooden figurines were so easy to make, so satisfying to complete. I loved the way they took on a life of their own when I set them beside one another in various places throughout the house. I loved that I could control how I made them look by the work of my own two hands. I loved that making them brought back memories from the time I had taught Esme to carve before we were married.

"You won't be happy until you've carved an entire forest for our house, will you?" Esme asked fondly as she came up behind me and slipped her hand teasingly between my chisel and the fresh piece of wood I was about to nick.

I winced in a bashful panic as I quickly set down the chisel and pulled my wife's pretty hand away from the dangerous cutting tools.

"You shouldn't do that," I chided her lovingly with a chaste kiss to her knuckles, turning to look down into her eyes.

A crisp winter breeze scattered sawdust over my workbench and caused Esme's curls to fly haphazardly around her fair porcelain face. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile, her gaze reflecting the sparkling snow.

"I know. You get awfully excited whenever you're carving, love." There was a dark sort of warmth to her voice that made my breath skip.

Her hand was still trapped within mine from when I had kissed it, and her index finger stretched forward to tickle my lower lip.

I could see my eyes mirrored in her own, wide and inquisitive. I swallowed.

"I don't think I've showed you the bed sheets I picked out yet," she said, a hint of suggestion not so hidden in her voice.

I laughed heartily at her, drawing her hand away from my face. "I think you showed them to me a dozen times, darling."

I picked up my chisel again and started into the carving I had been about to work on before she interrupted.

"Did you prefer the sheets to be red or green?" she asked brightly, her eyes dancing as she circled slowly around my workbench.

"I don't have a preference. Both are fine."

"Good. Because I couldn't decide, so I just put both of them together."

I smirked. "Clever."

"I thought so, too."

I sighed and tossed her my pair of gloves. "Take those back inside, will you?"

"Why don't I put them on you, and _then_ take them back inside?"

I hid my smile. She was determined to get me inside the house. I enjoyed teasing her too much to let her win just yet.

"I'll be in as soon as I've finished this last carving," I promised.

Her expression softened as she came close enough to fondly tap the corner of the wooden block on the table. "And what's this one going to be?"

"You'll just have to wait and see," I whispered.

"Fine." Her lips brushed my cheek. "Don't be too long."

"I won't."

I remained true to my word. Twenty minutes was enough time to finish carving a rabbit no bigger than my hand. Truth be told, I didn't want to spend any more time away from Esme when she was waiting so patiently for my company.

I craved hers just as much.

It was dusk by the time I came back into the house, shaking off my boots on the doormat before I went any further and ruined the hardwood floor. I didn't remember there being a doormat when I went outside that morning. Esme must have gone out and bought that, too.

I grinned begrudgingly as I slipped out of my socks, then carried my newest carving into the hall, in search of my wife.

Her warm voice greeted me as I entered the living room. "There's my beloved _Bernini._"

I shook my head at the nickname as I leaned over the back of the sofa where she lay and kissed her forehead. "I would hope my sculptures were anything but _Baroque_, sweetheart."

"Oh, hush. I meant it as a compliment." She ruffled my hair playfully and gently pried the wooden rabbit from my hand. "For me?"

I nodded.

She held the small animal up for her critique and giggled. "Oh, Carlisle. It's adorable."

I laughed amiably as I knelt by the fireplace and began stacking the logs inside. "I thought you might have a good idea for where to put it."

Her face instantly became serious as she considered how it would fit in with the current decor. "I think it would look perfect on the window sill right beside my bathtub," she said wistfully. Her eyes met mine briefly when I looked up from my task of preparing the fireplace. "Will you go and place it there for me?"

Immediately I rose to my feet without a question to her request. I took the carving from her hands and obediently made my way through the hall and into our bedroom. It was appealingly dark inside, lit only by the faint blue dusk leaking in from the curtain framed windows. The room was more concealed than the rest, the only one with fully carpeted floors that made it completely echoless. It smelled faintly of cinnamon.

Outside, snow fell softly without a sound, painting the windows with a sheen of protective frost. I opened the creaky wooden door that led to the bathroom and found Esme's specified spot without even flipping the light switch.

The window sill was low enough to be within easy reach to anyone who lay inside the bathtub. Esme had already dressed the rough wooden ledge with her favorite soap bottles, and a single vanilla scented candle inside a circlet of pine branches and sprigs of holly. I tucked the wooden rabbit into the corner of the window, where it could be partially ensconced in the pine needles.

Satisfied with my decorative instincts, I closed the door behind me and met my wife back in the living room where she had dutifully finished my work in lighting a fire.

She patted the fur rug on the floor beside her and I settled down to join her in front of the blossoming blue flames. I stretched out my legs, letting my bare feet face the fire, and Esme curled up against my side.

"As happy as I am when we have our entire family together, I do love just being alone with you," she murmured into my shoulder.

I reached down and squeezed her hand, smiling at the fire. "So do I."

The flames crackled contentedly and the wind whistled lovingly outside our window. Thin sheets of frost congealed along the panes of glass, longing to melt through the window and join us. It emphasized the stark contrast between the tempting warmth of our home and the bitter cold just outside. Reaching up to the sofa behind us, I tugged down the blanket and draped it over our bodies before sliding my hand around Esme's hip to hold her more tightly. I hoped that made the frost even more envious.

I sighed, and the fire snipped at me for disturbing the perfect silence.

But it made not a peep when Esme spoke.

"Sometimes, if it is quiet enough, I swear I can hear your heart still beating."

Her voice was strained yet tender, echoing in the hollow of my empty chest where she rested. Her chin rubbed against the place where my heart would have been, teasing me with tiny movements I could never feel again.

"Why do you say things like that?" I asked, failing to hide how heartbroken her simple statement had made me feel.

"You say things like that all the time," she pointed out, a soft tone of argument hidden in her words.

"I _write _things like that," I specified, flexing my fingers as a subtle reminder of my passionate hobby.

She grasped my fingers and lifted her head from my shoulder to look up into my eyes. "You say them, too."

My throat tightened, making my following words difficult. "Only when we are alone."

She glanced to the side, allowing a brief reflection of our roaring fire to shine in her eyes. "Aren't we alone right now?"

When she looked back at me, I found myself speechless. My heart began to panic at the thoughts of those little, superficial things I had lost from being human. I refused to submit myself to those thoughts, especially while Esme was tucked in my arms.

"I don't want to start thinking that way again," I warned her quietly, digging my fingers into her sides as if it would force the thoughts out of me. "I'll start to want something I can't have."

"What do you mean?"

The light, wary note in her voice haunted me. I had to be honest with her.

"I'll wish to be human again," I whispered, my eyes filled with envy for the fire's heat as I looked away from her.

"You're _more_ than human, Carlisle," my wife passionately announced, her palm secure against my cheek. "We all wish for something once in a while. We know we can't have it, but that's what makes it just a wish," she mentored me wisely. "Just a healthy, harmless wish."

Her thin finger traced a line from the corner of my eye to the swell of my lower lip, as if following the invisible track of a teardrop down my face. I bit my lip to keep it from trembling as I finally lowered my eyes to meet hers, seeking refuge in the glow of her boundless love for me.

"Remember this, always," she whispered. "I _never _want you to change."

With that she cupped my chin and drew me close for a deep kiss. Her lips were full and generous, spiced with desire as she sought entry to my mouth with her delicate tongue. As I allowed her to invade me, my mind filled with mist and my heart was reminded of how fortunate I was to have what I did. Only Esme could provoke such a profound change within me with just a moment, just a single gesture. She had no weapons and she used no force. She had only the overwhelming love in her heart and the power of a gentle touch in her fingers.

Unaware that my hands were already in motion, I had somehow managed to flick several buttons of my sweater loose before Esme was finished kissing me. When she pulled away, she wasted no time with the rest. Her fingers tore the woven beige threads apart and freed me just as quickly of the cotton shirt I wore underneath.

She laid her head down on my chest, and her hair spilled out across my skin, a sea of copper strands spiraling out onto a shore of white. I shivered, running my fingers through the tiny tide of silk as she settled against me. Her fingers deftly relieved me of my belt and pants, all while her velvet cheek lay at loyal rest on my collarbone.

I helped her efforts by kicking away any excess fabric, delighted by the teasingly soft tufts of fur that touched my naked skin from the rug beneath us. It was moments like these where I was made indecently appreciative of my wife's choice in decor.

She must have known her nude body would look stunning splayed out on that luxurious white fur rug.

I welcomed a tug of longing deep in my belly at the thought.

My hands were only aggressive toward the clothing she wore. Once she was free of her confinements, my hands were reverent and focused. There was no fear or worry in her eyes as she looked to me - only promises and passion. Her features softened in submission, her limbs opened invitingly, and everything about her was open, ready, and willing for me.

Before we were married, I had imagined seeing Esme this way so many times. Bare, exposed, her slender figure shuddering against every shade and texture I could think of. I had envisioned her on scarlet silk and rich oriental patterns and thick clouds of cool white cotton. Warm dewy grass on summer mornings, and mosaics of burnished autumn leaves. Blue so deep it was like the dark side of the moon, violets so garish they made her skin look pink. I imagined her floating in shallow water as ripples danced around her body, and iridescent bubbles coated her curves.

To this day I had been blessed to fulfill nearly every one of my fantasies. I had seen Esme in every way I'd imagined...and so many more. She was always offering herself to me in the most unexpected places.

I was vaguely aware of the shadows that filtered into the room around us as dusk turned to darkness. The snow was now coming down so thick it looked like a curtain of lace had been draped over our house. The change in atmosphere was stark enough that Esme's eyes flitted toward the window at the same time I turned my head out of curiosity to look. Though I often prided myself on having unbreakable concentration, there were still many times when I was just as easily distracted as my wife.

I let myself enjoy the view for a few moments, admiring the shimmering snowfall and basking in the comfort of our fire lit interior. Restless gusts of wind caused the wood to creak, but the walls held sturdy against the blizzard, determined to preserve our romantic confinement.

A distant smile crossed my face as I watched tall black pine trees sway in the swirling snow through the window. The prospect of being snowed in tomorrow morning was awfully appealing.

A peaceful sigh of amusement from beneath me drew my attention away from the strengthening snowstorm.

I turned my head and noticed that Esme was no longer engrossed in what was happening outside. Now she was looking up at me in _that way_. Her eyes dewy and hooded, her lips parted, her breath short. It was a look of subtlest challenge, but it was also a generous invitation. Her eyes spoke volumes while her lips were still, imploring me to indulge myself in all that her body offered. For years we'd shared an intimacy beyond anything I'd imagined; for years I'd seen this very look on her face, and yet it never ceased to fascinate me. She was so vulnerable, so trusting, so enticing. Her gaze alone fed my humble hunger for that tiny swell of power and pride. It was as if she knew just how secretly I craved that simple taste of masculine dominance. She fed it to me with a silver spoon as she lay there with all her feminine glory exposed, her dark eyes silently considering all the ways I could take her.

I burned uncontrollably when I wondered about Esme's fantasies. She was comfortable revealing numerous secrets to me, even those of an incredibly intimate nature. But I knew there were many things she did not share so freely with me, just as there were many things I did not readily share with her.

Nevertheless, I was confident that I could coax a few new secrets out of her if I put myself to the challenge.

I felt my forehead wrinkling as I attempted to gauge how far she was from favorable inebriation. It could be a while before she started spilling anything too personal. I had a feeling it might take more than a few well-practiced caresses for her to share something new with me tonight.

"You're lost in your thoughts, darling."

My shoulders stiffened slightly in response to her accusation, but it hadn't been anything I wasn't expecting. Esme always noticed when my mind was drifting.

"My thoughts are idle," I lied lazily. I knew she could see right through me.

"Mmmm. I doubt that. I can see them twisting and turning..." She grasped a few stray locks of my hair on either side of my head and stirred them gently with her fingers.

I purred happily at the impromptu massage, aware that my wife would take it personally if I failed to gather her intended message. I wanted to ignite a little bit of fire in her.

As I expected, Esme's hands immediately pulled away, denying me pleasure at the expense of her questioning glare. It appeared she was just as set upon teasing me, too.

I pouted at the withdrawal of her touch, but she fixed me in place with a flirtatious, sparkly stare. The next thing I knew, she was reaching up to lightly drag the tip of her index finger down the center of my forehead, pure wonder written in her eyes. "One has to wonder what has you so consumed, Doctor Cullen."

I barely suppressed a satisfied grin as she traced delicate but complicated swirls across my forehead. I had never before given any credit to the forehead being an erogenous zone, but now I was having second thoughts. Clearly, any part of a man's body Esme dared to touch became erogenous.

"You know precisely what has me so consumed," I told her, my voice raspy. I bent down and curved my neck into hers, burying my nose in her silky hair as she giggled beneath me. Her breasts rubbed incessantly against my chest as she shook with coy laughter, and I pined for something clever to say just so that I could prolong the exquisite effects of her laugh.

As I hovered above her, her fingers crept over my thighs, burrowing deeper until her hand cupped the bundle of flesh between them. I whimpered as she squeezed and caressed, slipping into crevices I was not even brave enough to explore on my own.

I softly uttered my pleasure, encouraging the elaborate touch of her hand. Shadows deepened in my subconscious, and the weight of our intimacy settled deep in my stomach. With my lips I timidly grasped her earlobe and suckled contentedly, thanking her without words.

Outside the wind howled relentlessly, like a mother wolf searching for her pups - a sound so mournful and cold. My body sank into the arms of my wife, caught in that strange but beautiful bridge between desperation and utter comfort. Here I was home, I was safe, and I was loved.

"Don't fall asleep now," Esme teased, nudging my side as I lay still against her. I smiled into her shoulder, squeezing her waist as a form of apology. Raising my head, I assured her that I was indeed alert.

"Silly girl." I rubbed noses with her and she giggled again. Her eyes sparkled and her legs tightened slightly around my hips.

A familiar fever spread through my veins, rousing a curious fire in my groin. Esme's quick-witted fingers trailed up my back and along my neck, bringing me closer as she lifted her chin to kiss me. Our lips met once, twice, and then touched with a whisper of a breath before Esme reclined, apparently satisfied for the time being.

I likewise lifted my head to study her in the dim firelight, the way her supple lips quirked on one side, the way the shadows emboldened her dimpled smile.

"How do you do it?" I asked, breathless.

Her eyes flashed with knowing humor as she cocked her head against the rug. "Do what?"

"Make my heart ache with just one smile?"

She burst into sweet, girlish laughter, tossing gently beneath me as I watched, bemused.

"Oh, Carlisle." She shook her head, her expression insultingly fond as she pinched my jaw with two fingers. "You're so archaic."

My mouth formed a line. "In more ways than one."

The sparkle in her eyes calmed to a dreamy shimmer. Her smile was wholesome. "I love that about you."

Our hips ground closer to one another, and I was certain she could sense my appreciation.

Her eyes fluttered then closed briefly, her thighs tightening so much around me that my hips actually began to ache. I felt a tempting moisture pool in her lap, somehow sealing us together.

A moan escaped my throat as I bowed my head and rested my cheek on the swell of her breast. She shivered.

"I'm cold," she stated with a longing glance in the direction of the fireplace. "Take me closer to the fire."

I hid my grin between her breasts. I knew Esme too well. She could be such a playful pest...but then again so could I.

We both liked to pretend we were human.

Intent on obeying her soft-spoken command, I lifted myself from her perfectly warm body and hovered for a moment, giving her just enough time to take in the sight of me, fully enhanced by the fire's glow. Her dark eyes gleamed while she watched me shift my weight and stretch my legs. It was something of a challenge to manage my body - the body of a fully grown adult male - while confined to the horizontal perimeter of a moderately sized area rug. Some part of me enjoyed being forced to crawl about like a child, the awkward shifting of balance to maintain an acceptable amount of grace. There was something wonderfully exposing and liberating about it.

I had made love to my wife on many variants of the floor before, but never on a bear hide rug. I was finding it most pleasant thus far.

I gathered Esme up in my arms and kneeled my way toward the fireplace where the flames welcomed us with a burst of heat and a hearty crackle. Sensual reddish light flickered freely over the space I had chosen to settle, manipulating the mood of the room.

"Thank you, love," Esme murmured appreciatively as I bent over her, lowering her into the fur. Her thighs parted lazily before the flames.

All my venom rushed readily to my loins, leaving my mouth completely dry. "You're welcome." I barely managed the words.

An almost sinister twinkle defiled her innocent gaze as her stare dipped below my waist.

"The firelight flatters you," she whispered. Her lips glistened as she said it.

I opened my mouth to respond in some way, but was distracted by the sight of her own hand rising slowly over her torso to fondle her breast.

She was destroying me.

Her fingers continued to roam across her own skin, her gaze steady on mine, watching me as I watched her. I was only vaguely aware that my mouth was open, my mind more blank than an arctic tundra.

Somehow my hand managed to reach forward and grasp hers, guiding it experimentally across the plane of her taut tummy. My fingers consumed hers, twice as large. She allowed me the power of manipulation, her digits limp as I entertained myself vicariously through her forced touch.

I guided her hand down the trembling curve of her thigh, moved by the irresistible expression on her face as I matched up our forefingers and pressed the plush pink button that would awaken her pleasure.

"Are you still cold, darling?" I asked, not expecting a wordy response.

She mumbled incoherently, shaking her head 'no' as I continued to control her touch. Tiny strands of her hair flared as she rubbed her head against the rug, and I lovingly smoothed the static from her curls with my free hand.

Bending down, I placed a soft kiss on her temple. Her eyes opened up to see my face, shining in the darkness of my shadow as I loomed over her. Without a word she communicated her need to me by gently clutching my backside to bring me closer to her lap. Unable to suppress my instincts, I slipped slowly inside of her; hot, hard, and buried deep.

The enchanting fragrance of burning pine mixed with that of our burning desires. Our combined heat made clouds of white spread across the cold windows, and outside the snow grew even thicker, tumbling wildly from the sky.

Esme's eager lips latched onto my neck and sucked furiously as I pumped into her, overwhelmed by the sea of tempting textures that surrounded me. The silk of her hair, the velvet of her skin, the feathery softness of the fur rug beneath us... the rough, unpredictable bursts of heat coming from the fire...

Her legs curled around my waist, pulling me deeper, the upward tilt of her hips tantalizingly vulnerable. My hands gripped more tightly at her waist, and hers mercilessly squeezed my shoulders. She whispered something incoherent to me – a whisper that transformed into more of a soft shriek when I finally surrendered my control.

A soothing darkness enveloped my conscious as I settled to the deepest point within her, my body melding to hers as the miracle of our love so eloquently dictates. There was no masculine or feminine when we were one; all opposite concepts became equally balanced, creating something entirely new and too beautiful to describe in earthly terms.

I somehow found the strength to give one more thrust, my body wracked by the fatigue of a relentless pleasure. Esme fed off the force of my final effort, her sudden storm of fluttering and pulsing far outweighing the fulfillment of my own climax. It was a familiar formula that never quite manifest itself in the same way. Each time it was different, changing and morphing into something strange and exciting. There was such beauty in that we never knew who would break first. It was not a competition so much as a constant climb of anticipation, a lingering question reflected in our eyes – daring, breathless, and desperately curious until the very end.

My senses sang in perfect harmony as I watched my wife's beautiful body assaulted by pleasure. She tossed about on the white fur rug, eyes half-open, lips panting, legs trembling. I was free to touch her in any way I wished, my fingers following a path of gentle wonder across her flawless skin. My knuckles were warmed in the valley of her breasts, her soft flesh so prettily flushed by the firelight. The pad of my thumb swept curiously down the curve of her hipbone, tracing tiny swirls along the swell of her thigh. When her body at last became still, I laid myself to rest overtop of her, my nose burrowed in the luxurious mess of her hair.

She breathed into my ear, shallow and content for a while as I lazily studied the grainy details of the hard wood floor around us. My concentration on such things was an anomaly after being intimate with my wife. I noticed more subtleties in the colors and shades, truly appreciating how intricate and possessing they were. The texture of the wood seemed almost dangerous compared to the comfortable softness of the fur I'd come to know.

The rug on which we lay was like a safe raft in a strange sea of rustic brown wood. Self-consciously, I tucked my knees closer to the rest of my body, determined that no part of me should stray from the warm surface of the rug.

I had found a new home within a home, and I did not intend on leaving so soon.

**-}0{-**

My wife was warm on my side as we laid together, watching our unchanging surroundings as though we found meaning in rough wood furnishings and limp cotton curtains and heaps of blackened ash in the fireplace.

I closed my eyes every so often, but when I felt her breath spill down my throat, I had to look.

I took a quick peek at her face beside me, and my gaze caught the slope of her slender nose, the downy russet shades of her thick eyelashes, the faint glistening spots on her cheek where my lips had marked her through the night. Made content by the sight, my eyes drifted into savory darkness once again.

My eyes had never felt this tired. I thought of telling her this, but then I remembered that I had chosen silence for this day. Starting this very early and cold morning.

It was something I did sometimes. Esme called it my "twenty-four-hour vow of silence." I liked to think of it in a different way. I used it as practice to speak using less than words. Or perhaps it was _more _than words. Sometimes I thought touch trampled the use of words. Harshly.

I felt my lips curve into a smile at the thought of touch in a battle with spoken words, but my thought was interrupted by a hitch in the breath of the woman beside me.

"Look out the window," I heard her murmur on the shell of my ear. "Look," she repeated, and pinched my chin, nudging me to the direction she desired.

So I looked.

"Hmm." I could think of no words to grant the beauty I saw before us, through the glass, on the window pane, whistling through the trees and air. A great ghostly sea of white. Clouds that had fallen from the heavens. Quilts and pillows of snow, comforting and cold.

So maybe I _could _think of words to describe it...but I was simply not in the mood to share them.

"It's all white," she whispered against my chin. "Everything. White."

Her hand traveled across the length of my torso, and I couldn't help but think she was speaking as much about my skin as the snow, as she whispered about everything being white.

"Carlisle..."

My skin sizzled at the sound of my name, and I turned to her pretty eyes, begging her to order me to do something sensual. I knew she would from the look she was giving me **– **with those wanton, sweet, dark pools of color in her gaze. I anticipated her command before it was uttered.

"Touch me," she demanded, her words soft like the frothy fur rug we shared. "Touch me here..."

And she guided my ready hand past her shoulder, down a taunting silken path to her breast. I was more than willing to obey her command, speaking to her through the gentle grasp of my palm.

She closed her eyes, let her lovely neck fall back and sighed as her hair stroked the ground in whispering tendrils. She knew I couldn't resist her, and she accommodated me so thoughtfully by sliding her leg around my waist. The suggestion of closeness made me burn, and into her I wanted to melt, as she asked it of me.

Esme's breath swiftly erased the shy patter of snowflakes in my ears as I eased my descent over her body. "You've been so quiet, darling," she muttered with a strange half-smile, her eyes not quite open all the way, though I wanted her to watch me.

I was surprised by her words, but not truly. Esme was always known for her awfully unpardonable utterances, even in the midst of boiling intimacy. That intimacy of ours was put on a simmer as I pondered her words, straining above her resting form.

"What should I say?" I asked, wincing at the insecurity that laced my tone. (And also because I realized I had ruined my twenty-four-hour vow with that one sentence). Esme chuckled, though, so I was all right.

"I don't know." She gave a shrug of one shoulder as she reached up to stroke the edge of my jaw, her eyes full and bright beneath me. Her eyes were so open, I wanted to crawl inside of them and bury myself in her cumulus love. "Anything. Tell me how you feel?"

My head brushed against her hand, helplessly. I came to realize I was always seeking more of her touch.

"I feel..." My lips lingered weakly for a moment, open and useless with no words to form. Esme furrowed her brow in pity beneath me, and I drew my face away shyly so as to avoid my answer.

"Whatever you do, don't say _lonely_," she warned. I blanched.

We never said "lonely." All derivatives of the word itself were cast away as if they were the crudest of cuss words in our household. Lonely, loneliness, alone. We cringed at the very syllables.

Esme stroked my back with her hands, trying to draw the echo of the word out of me as I shuddered from its sting. "I'm sorry," she whispered, both sincere and seductive.

I felt my lips tremble, but I let Esme see. She would never judge me.

Her hands curled around my shoulders and she pressed up against me, bringing with her a delectable burst of sweet heat. I kissed her in thanks, and she replied to my tongue with a delighted whimper, sinking back to her bed of flossy white fur.

She shivered, almost furiously, and I was surprised that she was still smiling, dimly. "It's so cold."

"But you feel so warm, darling," I murmured in wonder as I trailed my fingers languidly over the curve of her belly.

She nearly giggled, fidgeting from my touch. "Mhm, yes, you're making me cold, love."

I snatched my hand away as if she had caught fire, terrified at the prospect of stealing her warmth.

The forgiveness in her smile was almost too much for me to bear as she decidedly pulled my hand back and placed it firmly on the soft pillow of her thigh. She shivered again, but it was more lilting this time, suggestive of something not caused by dipping temperatures.

"Touch me."

"I am."

"Touch me, here..."

She guided my fingers into a slick flower of silk, and I remembered the first time she had let me touch her this way.

I hadn't known she would feel like that. So impossibly..._ Merciful Lord, no description existed in any language I had learned. _Perhaps it did not exist for good reason. Men would never cease to speak about it.

She felt so perfect, so warm, so lush and wet beneath my then inexperienced fingers. All I could do was sob; all my fingers could do was quiver. Because the thought that this was for me, that _this_ was the place I was meant to belong... it was too fierce a miracle to accept. I was all but panicked with the fever of wanting her. I was flush with that want, my flesh stinging with the hot strain of readiness. I was too prepared to give her what her body was begging for. I had been so afraid I would lose myself before I found her.

Somehow she led me in the only right direction; in her untainted innocence, she had forced me to find my way home. She blossomed for me, like the roses I had always dreamed about in the ill-lusted fantasy world of my mind. But she put every rose to shame, opening to my intrusion with the will to welcome me, her glossy heat ready to mold to any length, any girth I would impose upon her. I could sense the depth she would offer me, the tenderness with which she would grasp me. And it had stunned me, scared me. Thrilled me.

Her innocent eyes had looked so hungry as she swallowed the sight of me, of what I was offering her. She was as new as I to the silent preaching of love back then. She had been frightened, but so deliciously trusting. She savored the fright, the uncertainty, because she felt safe with my hands to guide her.

I had never felt more powerful, nor more vulnerable in my life before.

In that moment, Esme had assured me with the unbound love in her haunted gaze. She had lifted her body to meet mine, dropping all resistance to accept me, for which I had done nothing to deserve.

I had realized the insignificance of the imagination for the first time, in my marriage bed. How foolishly arrogant I had been in all my assumptions **– **in all the wasteful, crude, uncreative substitutes for sensual subtleties with which I had mindlessly indulged myself for centuries. My thoughts had been no less barren than a desert, and Esme **– **the one true rose in the only garden I had ever been brave enough to explore **– **was the richest oasis I had come to pass in my wanderings.

She was everything I hadn't dared to imagine, and everything I had only hoped could be real. Not a hold, but a clutch. Not a heat, but a sear. Not a center, but a core. Her soul was here, buried perhaps even deeper than I could travel. But I tried with all my strength to find it, to nudge it at the very end...if there ever was one. Her depth had been daunting when first I dove.

But there was an end. There was a cradle deep inside where her soul resided, waiting to be awakened. I knew because I had persevered, devoted to the quest of unlocking its unseen prison. I knew because I had touched it.

And any man who would dare to tell me such a touch was impossible must perish in the well of his faith.

It seemed everything that should have been impossible was suddenly occurring at fine rush, with every move I dared to make. Somehow I fit within her, somehow I recalled how to say her name; somehow the pleasure had not parched us clean. We were breaking boundaries, and shunning every rule known to man. I hadn't the faintest if we were an exception for our immortal race, or if we simply owed our abilities to the power of our unique bond. I did not care.

All I had wanted was to keep chasing, keep moving, keep breathing with her...and I hoped we would never meet an end.

"Let me touch you," I spoke aloud to her now, my voice weakened from my fleeting recollections.

"You _are_ touching me," she whispered contentedly, eyes closed, head tipped back into her dreams.

My eyes looked down and I saw that she was truthful. My fingers were lost inside of her.

"No, let me...touch you..." My fingers slid deeper, curving to gently press the place she had always been shy to let me touch. Her eyes flashed open, startled, and her lips spilled a lovely gasp **– **the echo of her desire strummed inside my chest, a seductive melody as light as air, but heavy as metal.

A blaze of warmth enclosed my probing fingers as she let her slender thighs fall loose, inviting me to elaborate my touch. Her eyes kept watch on my hand as I rotated my wrist ever so slowly, preparing the angle for her to receive a third finger. Already my fingers were bathing inside of her.

No matter how utterly intrusive I felt as I imposed the pressure, her response was always reassuring. I sighed in relief when a shiver ran down her leg; my muscles relaxed as her eyelashes fluttered and her neck tilted back, gracefully exposing the snow-white skin of her throat.

She settled back as I lifted her thigh to lay across my bent knee, stroking her intimately in the most sensitive space within her. She clutched me firmly, and strangely, I felt the tightness of her grasp not around my fingers, but around my heart.

As if sensing this curious reflex, Esme opened her eyes to gaze up at me. So trusting were her eyes, so loving in her submission before me. Yet she was not submissive by my will, but rather her own. She _chose _to be this way for me, to give herself so fully and completely, to surrender her control and place her trust in mine. I could see the pleasure sparkling in the delectable darkness of her eyes, her breathing shallow and melodious as she slid her hips closer to my hand.

"Stay here," she whispered the tender order, trapping my fingers tightly in place.

So here I must stay.

Her eyes struggled to watch me, laving up and down the length of my arm, from my hand to my eyes, and back again. As thrilled as I was to have her gaze meet mine, there was something so invigorating when Esme's eyes were fixated on my hands. Since the very beginning I had felt this way, even during that first night as I tended to her broken leg. The way her doe-like eyes followed every move of my fingers, worshipful in her attention, entranced by everything I did...it encouraged something chauvinistic to churn gently in my chest. I was powerless to stop it. Every last inch of my body, every part of me, inside and out, was devoted entirely to pleasuring her.

I trapped her in place with my gaze, feeling the rush of power overcome me as she met my eyes and gripped my forearm. Her eyelids fluttered shut, her legs opened then came closer together, the exquisite signs of her climax fast approaching.

Her lips began to mumble, small and delicate words that held a surprising weight of meaning.

"You give me...so much."

With such a weak voice, she was not as incoherent as she sounded. Her words, though vague, moved me very deeply. She was not only speaking of what I was giving her right now, but everything I had given her throughout our lives together. She meant every touch, every kiss, every embrace as much as every gift, every letter, every sculpture, every encouragement, every secret.

Her thighs trembled and tightened, her hips rising with need. My love for her overwhelmed me in that moment, and I bowed my head closer to rest my cheek against hers as my fingers traced the intimate contours within her. Her tiny breaths hit my ear in a quickening pace as I pleasured her into a satisfying storm of sighs.

A swift series of grips surprised my fingers from inside of her, the unassuming strength of her body never failing to ignite a tender flame in my groin. I smiled contentedly into the crook of her slender neck as she embraced me, savoring each lush wave as it passed through her.

When she finally settled into stillness, I turned my head ever so slightly, just enough to catch her lips for a kiss. I always felt the visceral need to kiss her afterward; in some understood way it seemed to seal the contract, accepting the conception of her pleasure.

Our tongues slid together in blissful unison, lazy and unprovoked by anything in the world surrounding us. It was a kiss so solemn and true, no matter how deeply we explored each other, it still felt utterly pure.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, winding, pulling, appreciating.

It felt like an epiphany of sorts, though I should have known better than to call it something so powerful. I had felt this every day since I'd made Esme my wife, and would likely feel it every day from now until the end of eternity.

But for now I was content to remain here, in my wife's tender arms, the fire of our love protecting us from the winter's harsh frost.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Any thoughts you can share or advice on which color I should write about next are very much appreciated!**


	12. Gray

**Inspired by Gray**

**Medium: Lightning on Storm clouds**

* * *

_July 2007_

_~Esme_

He was writing notes in his books again.

It was by pure accident that I came to notice the old habit had returned; on a warm, silent Thursday evening, after few stressful conversations with our son about his future. Little things like that could set Carlisle off. He dealt with stress in very peculiar, albeit quiet ways. One of those ways was scribbling down notes and reminders to himself whenever he was in the middle of reading a book.

Of course Carlisle never _needed_ to write any reminders down. He did it to feel more human. He liked pretending that his memory was vulnerable to forget those wayward thoughts that crossed his mind while reading.

There was something so distressingly private about those little notes he'd written in the margins of his books. Those scrawled numbers and random words which had no significance or meaning to anyone but the man who had written them. I wasn't quite sure if he knew that I had caught onto his habit. If he left his books laying out on his desk, I was always the one to stumble upon them. I would casually leaf through the pages, amusing myself with his cryptic phrases and pristine penmanship. I found it fascinating to try and piece together the puzzles he had left in those margins. Sometimes I felt like he was truly scribbling a cry for help, a note in a bottle, an S.O.S.

I had known something was bothering him for a while, but I hadn't thought to question him about it. We were all worried about Edward and Bella – about his control and her safety – while they were away on their honeymoon. We didn't talk about it, at least not with the rest of the family. Carlisle and I would have brief, furtive discussions whenever we were alone, speculating about why we hadn't heard from our son for more than twenty-four hours. We took strange comfort in being the overbearing, concerned parents. But we also knew our curiosity and distress were justified.

So did Edward.

Nearly ten days later, Carlisle was still writing nonsense in the margins of his books, but now we all knew the reason.

The news came as a complete shock to me, yet it had nothing to do with the fact that this particular kind of news should have been impossible.

Bella was with child.

She was carrying in her womb a potential person – one who was viciously alive and growing dangerously fast.

I had to first admit my wonder, internally, that my son had been fortunate enough to have a part in this miraculous creation. As Edward's mother, I was thrilled and proud and awestruck over his apparent predicament. But Edward was not truly my first son.

I had been a mother to another once. A little boy. A tiny person whose face I can only summon from imagination, not from memory.

The bombardment of emotions was overwhelming for me. From what I gathered, Edward did not even want to see his own child, and for that I was furious with him. At the same time, Bella's condition made me want to weep every time I listened to her over the phone. But it was not only the physical distress of her condition that made me want to weep; it was because she had what I had always wanted. In her position, I envisioned myself, struggling against the rest of the world to hold onto the child destiny had promised me no matter how hopeless my future appeared.

I was tempted to say I hadn't felt such profound sorrow since the time Edward had left us in the 1930's. I could still remember the painful passing of each day I spent, staring out the window, hoping he would return. When I closed my eyes now, the vision came flooding back to me – the endless sea of smooth snow that stretched across our yard, awash in late-evening tones of blue that were somehow both dim and vivid. I remember how Carlisle had stood behind me, one hand against his heart, as if he felt a true pang in his chest from searching the grounds for some sign that our son had returned. Day after day, our eyes would always meet with a familiar shimmer of grief, knowing we had both seen the same thing. No footprints in the snow.

The sorrow I felt now was much different, but no less painful. It was, at its core, a feeling of hopelessness. Never knowing what the next day would bring. Just barely surviving from one minute to the next. Constantly wondering if you would even see tomorrow. Rationing every breath you take just in case it would be your last.

I understood these feelings, and so I understood how Bella felt. Though our circumstances were drastically different, our reason for surviving was the same. The baby inside of her deserved a chance at life too. I wondered why Edward refused to see that.

I hadn't planned to confront my son about his situation until after he and Bella came home from Rio. But not more than twenty hours had passed before I decided I was going to call my son personally and give him a piece of my mind. Needless to say, I didn't act on that impulse. I decided to devote more of my time to finding the right words before I jumped into a nasty argument with him. Little did I know, the bitter truth would be revealed to me long before I was ready to face it.

"Carlisle told Edward he would help get rid of the baby."

Coming from Rosalie's mouth, this could have been a pure instigation. But I knew it wasn't. Not this time. My passions matched those of my daughter when it came to defenseless children. Rosalie had told me my own husband's decision so that I could act on both our behalf. I had a reason, an excuse, a story to defend my position. It was true that none of us could sway Edward, except for perhaps Carlisle. But _I _was the only one who could sway my husband.

If I'd had the time to think over how I would approach him, I would have. But I didn't. I went after him as soon as my daughter told me the news.

Sometimes when I was angry I imagined myself standing in front of a giant canvas in an empty gallery, where I could paint my inner feelings on the walls. If I could have access to canvas and paint right now, I would have splattered the buckets all over the place in rage and frustration.

As soon as I turned the corner of the hall, I nearly crashed into him. He stood innocently by the window, his hands folded complacently in front of him. He looked as if he had been waiting for me. As if he were _hoping _I would show up to confront him.

"How _could _you?" I hissed in outrage.

"We don't know what this is—"

"Don't you say that to me! You know damn well what 'this' is. It's _life, _Carlisle!" The harshness of my own voice surprised me, but Carlisle did not seem fazed by it. I stared at him for a moment, shaking my head in disbelief, too angry to think of words quickly enough to say what I felt inside. His expression was stiff, but his eyes looked lost, and this gave me a flicker of hope. I knew that if I just fought with him passionately enough, I could convince him.

"I know you," I told him, shaking with the effort to keep my voice soft. "I know you don't really want to do this."

"Then you understand my pain in making this decision," he said matter-of-factly.

I couldn't help it. His curtness set me off.

"Why make it at all if it's so painful, then?" I spat.

The fire just barely reached his eyes. "Because Bella's life is at risk!"

"But this isn't what _she _wants!" I argued.

Just like that, his 18th Century temper was flaming. "Of course it isn't what she wants! Bella would sooner see herself dead than see her unborn child lose its only chance at life! Do you think me so foolish as to believe no other mother would make the same sacrifice?" He barely paused long enough in his quivering defense to let me respond. "I know _you_ would have, Esme. I know you would have wanted the same for your son. I know you would have sacrificed your own life without a second thought if it meant he had been given the chance to live on."

I didn't even realize I was sobbing until he finished his sentence and the fire immediately receded from his eyes.

"Look at me, Esme," he pleaded. "Darling, look at me."

I hugged myself protectively and turned away from him, facing the window. "I can't."

Outside, trees were being beaten by howling winds, their leaves slick and thrashing in all directions. A storm was beginning. But inside there was still utter silence.

"Esme, please..." Carlisle's voice was sad, desperate, delicate. "If you will not look at me, will you at least let me hold your hand while I say this to you?"

I did, barely, only because I couldn't resist his voice. The weight of his hand, the warmth of his palm, and the way he curled his fingers so precariously around mine made me realize how much I needed his touch.

"The love I feel for you is overpowering, Esme. I love you as my equal, _and _as the mother of our children. I have trusted you to make decisions that have impacted our family in the past. Now I must ask you to trust _me_ in making this decision." He left a pause in his speech, one I knew was specifically designed for me to make my choice. "Can you do that for me?" he asked, gentle as a baby bird.

And callous as a hawk, I shut him down again. "No, I don't think I can."

He sighed in exasperation, and as his hand loosened around mine I panicked at the thought of losing contact with him. The instant I turned to face him, my mouth started moving and words were pouring out against my control. "It's just so unfair, Carlisle! There is nothing I want in this world more than a child of my own. For you to steal that away from Bella is downright terroristic! She has a gift, one that you and Edward are all too willing to take away from her."

Carlisle looked appalled. "Bella's _own _life is also a gift, Esme. Would you rather I take _that _away from her?" Instead of shouting, he whispered the words to me, a masterful stroke. He knew exactly how to coax me into letting my guard down, but I couldn't let him win.

"Stop arguing with me when you know it isn't right!" I squeaked, weighed down with denial. "You don't really want to do this, Carlisle. You can't possibly... Edward has gotten to you, I think."

A wince flashed on his lips. "I would not let that happen."

He let go of my hand then, and turned on his heel to head down the hall. I immediately went after him, still persistently arguing his every point.

"I think you would. You are too willing to do whatever you can please him. You can't always indulge him, Carlisle. There are some things Edward still needs to be taught, but how can he learn what is right if you do not set the example for him?"

He halted on his way into his study, one arm resting vertically on the door jamb as he turned to face me. "Once Edward has his mind set on something, it is awfully hard to change it."

"But not impossible," I countered with confidence. "He looks up to you, Carlisle. More than anyone else. If there is anyone who can change his mind about this, it's you."

Carlisle looked regretful. "I don't think anyone can change his mind in this case... except for Bella."

I sighed. "I hope that you're right."

I would have been content to let it go then and there. I would have walked away after having the last word, knowing that my husband was at least aware of the wrongness in his decision to back up our son. But Carlisle did not go directly into his study. Instead, he stopped short, pulled himself back, and stared hard into my eyes. Then he uttered one little sentence that would make our conversation swerve violently in the opposite direction.

"If this does not turn out well..."

Panic set off inside of my chest, like a firecracker trapped beneath a bowl. "Don't say it, please..."

I suppose it was the look on my face that inspired him to reach out and embrace me. He pulled me closer until my back was pressed to his chest. "I should have told you about my decision sooner. I'm sorry." He began to rub my arms soothingly, but I could only shudder.

"I just don't understand _how _you could decide something so heartless." I could feel him grow tense when I brought it up again. But no matter how much it hurt him to hear it, I wasn't going to let it go. Not until he gave me a reasonable explanation for throwing away the morals he had always clung to. "That isn't _you, _Carlisle."

His hands stopped rubbing my arms and came to a halt on my shoulders, applying the slightest pressure. "I already explained to you my reasons. This is Edward's child, not my own."

I turned to face him with curiosity in my eyes, and a sharp challenge in my voice. "What if this _was _your child, Carlisle? What then?"

"Then it would be _your _life at risk," he whispered solemnly.

"And?"

"What do you think my decision would be?" If his question hadn't been so wonderful and rhetorical, I wouldn't have been caught standing on wobbly legs while he stroked my neck and the sides of my face, about to kiss me.

As it was, I turned away from him again. This time, I was sobbing.

He stood still in the doorway behind me, and even though I wasn't facing him, I could sense that he was confused, and probably worried that I was about to combust from crying so hard.

"Carlisle... I'm...I'm jealous of her. I'm jealous of Bella," I sputtered in shame. As embarrassed as I was to say it, I needed to have it off my chest and in the open. "I want a child of my own."

This was the first time I had admitted being jealous of a human to my husband, but it was certainly not the first time I admitted my desire for a child. In the past, Carlisle's response to this was always the same. But now it was no longer justified.

"Oh, Esme. You know how _desperately _I wish I could give that to you—"

White-hot anger whipped me around to face him. "No! No, Carlisle! This is _not _what you can't give to _me_! This is what _I _cannot give to _you_!"

He stopped trying to speak and stood in shock with his arms at his sides. "Esme, how can you say that? You cannot blame yourself for something so—"

"Stop! Just stop!" I put my hands up to my ears and turned around again, trying to escape him. Before I could get away, he grabbed both my arms and forced me to walk backwards over the threshold into his office. The door closed in front of me and seconds later I was buried in Carlisle's chest.

Save for the thunder rumbling in the distance, the room was eerily quiet. It was now clear to me that the entire house had been vacated some time ago. The others had only to hear our voices rising and know that they would be better off far away until we sorted things out. Carlisle and I so rarely disagreed, it was cause for evacuation when things escalated to the point of us shouting at one another. I felt horrible that it had come to this.

"It was me," I sobbed woefully, rubbing my face against Carlisle's sweater while he tried to soothe me. "It was me all this time."

He knew well what I was referring to. The fact that he did not respond made me think that he agreed and had no way to argue me. Against my better judgment I began to cry harder, my emotions swirling around a vortex of potential violence as I pounded my fists cathartically against his stomach. My hands worked in time with my sobs, wanting internally to destroy that perfect, virile, capable, _fertile_ body of his. He had what I could never have. He could be a biological father if he so desired. He could impregnate any human girl he saw walking down the street...

I clawed so roughly at his sweater that I tore right through the thick layer of cashmere. I felt guilty for barely a second before my guilt was replaced by swelling disdain.

"Esme, look at me. Please, look at me." His large hands formed a sturdy 'V' around my quivering jaw, forcing me to face him. "Open your eyes..." He touched my eyelids gently, one at a time, and I helplessly obeyed his command.

The room was darkened by the oncoming storm, leaving little more than a faint veil of gray light to illuminate his face. Still, his beauty startled me. Beams of soft lightning made his eyes glow in an almost holy way as he stared down at me, looking like some kind of dark angel.

"There are some things we must accept, Esme. But you cannot blame yourself for them." Even his voice was angelic. "Neither of us is to blame. This is something we have lived with for ages now. Nothing has changed."

Frustration bubbled up inside of me again at his denial. "But it has, Carlisle, don't you see that?" His brow furrowed in innocent confusion, giving me no choice but to announce it, harsh and clear. "You _can_ have a child." I was struck by awe the moment the words left my lips. Somehow saying them aloud had enhanced their realness. My voice faltered with grief-filled wonder as I reached up to trace his beautiful features with my fingers. "Your own flesh. Your own creation..." I could feel him trembling and shaking his head, as if the prospect actually scared him. "You can have that."

"But I only want that with _you_." There was a growling quality to his gentle voice as he said this, and it put a fire in my heart. His hands grasped my shoulders and tried to shake the sense back into me. "Esme, do you hear me? I would never dream of _touching _another woman."

"But it is _possible _for you. It isn't possible for me." An appropriate rumble of thunder set the tone for my regret.

"If it is impossible for one of us, then it is impossible for _both _of us," Carlisle stated with conviction. "We are one, Esme." Suddenly his eyes went from tender assuredness to bitter remorse. "Unless our marriage means nothing to you."

I fiercely shook my head and twisted around in his arms so that I was facing the other way.

"You will wonder about it, though. I know you will," I murmured. "How could you not wonder?"

"Wonder about what?" he asked hesitantly, his grip loosening on me.

"What your child would be like if you had one."

After a moment of thought, he laid his head down on my shoulder, a weary weight as he whispered against my neck. "I've wondered about that since the day I married you, Esme. Just as you have. Nothing has changed."

I tore myself out of his arms again, facing a daunting shelf of books. A flutter of lightning revealed their true colors for a fleeting moment before they turned back to their dull rainbow of grays. "Stop saying nothing has changed. It _has_ changed, Carlisle." My voice shook though I tried to keep it steady. Jealousy thrummed like a temperamental furnace in my belly as I stared blankly at the oppressive wall of books in front of me. "Dear God, you're... you're capable of..."

My head fell to my hands before I could finish the heartbreaking sentence.

"I am capable of _nothing_," he argued passionately. I felt him come closer until the subtle heat from his body touched my back. "Yes, it hurts to know that we cannot procreate together, but we must keep working to accept that."

"You _can _procreate." It was an accusation. A prosecution laced with a confusing mix of disdain and admiration.

"No, Esme. Without _you_, I cannot," he argued, his voice deep and swift, like a spear. "Listen to what I am telling you." His voice alone was strong enough to tempt me to turn; he didn't even have to touch me.

I gritted my teeth and whirled around, no longer shy about hiding my anger from him. I was fed up. "I _am_ listening! I've been listening to you twist everything I've tried to say to you for the past fifteen minutes."

He looked so saddened, so offended by this, I nearly slipped and kissed him out of pity.

"I am not 'twisting' anything!" he defended – hands out, palms up, vulnerable and beseeching. "You attack me before I even get the chance to speak, Esme!"

"So I suppose you want me to just be silent for the rest of the night, then?" I retaliated hotly.

Instead of letting the fire of his rage consume him, something in his eyes dimmed, though his voice was still stern. "No, that isn't what I want. What I want is for you to tell me, clearly and calmly, exactly what is making you upset."

"You know why I'm upset!" I snapped.

"I thought I did. But every time I've tried to comfort you, I've failed," he lamented, weary and hoarse. "So obviously there is something you are not telling me."

Sometimes I despised how observant he was to my feelings. Things were quite different now, after nearly a century of marriage to this man, than they had been when we'd first started living together. I realized now just how much I'd taken for granted my ability to veil my true emotions from my husband when I so desired. Now, such a task was all but hopeless.

Facing him now, I was taken with his compassion. It glowed around him like a tangible aura, muffling the sounds of the storm raging just outside our house, making the gray seem more golden. All he wanted was for me to be honest with him. I owed him that, didn't I? As his wife, he expected me to surrender my secrets, no matter how humiliating I felt them to be.

"I'm..." My voice cut out, forcing me to swallow before I finished. "I'm afraid, Carlisle."

To my surprise, his kind eyes narrowed, and he looked somehow both heavenly and sinister in the steadily darkening room. "Afraid of what? That I would seek out another mate? That I would try to impregnate a human woman just to have a child of my own?" His voice rose with every sentence, threatening the thunder that shook the walls. "Good Lord, Esme, that is ridiculous! You know I am not that man!"

I staggered upon seeing my husband in such agony, twitching and trembling over the loss of his composure as he fought uselessly to defend his honor. His sudden change in temper frightened me, but more so I was ashamed. Ashamed that he thought I could ever doubt his fidelity.

I fell back against the bookshelf, nearly choking in pain. "No, that—that isn't it—I—" Finding myself incoherent, my knees started to give out and I frantically sought out some place to sit. I stumbled into the leather chair behind Carlisle's desk, breathing heavily and fighting sobs.

He allowed me the space I needed for a few minutes, waiting until both of us had calmed enough to continue safely. The sound of the rain beating outside seemed to help, and I was grateful for it.

Still, I didn't dare raise my eyes from the floor when my husband came over to where I sat and squatted down across from me. He extended his hand to cup one of my bare knees and began to caress my skin hesitantly.

"What is it, then, Esme? Please tell me so that I can help you."

I cringed at the way he'd spoken, suddenly so chivalrous and earnest, so true to his nature. It was this soft, passionate voice that weakened me more than the roar of anger. He knew this too well.

Biting down my pride, I answered him. "I'm afraid that...that you'll be thinking about it more often."

His eyes blinked up at me, glossy and innocent as the lightning sparkled through the window. "About what? Having a baby?" His question seemed to melt in mid-air, softer than cotton candy.

I nodded slowly, still shaking violently with silent sobs. "Because now that you know _you _can procreate—"

"Stop," he interjected fiercely, cutting me off. "Every time you say that, you're putting a barrier between us. You're defining us based on our fertility."

I flinched painfully at the word, like a bullet in my gut. A ripe bout of jealousy ran through me like a solid wave of fire.

"Oh, God! I can't do this anymore!" I moaned into my hands. "I never imagined we'd be having this discussion!"

His hand tightened securely around my knee, sending little tendrils of pleasure through my calf, which I stubbornly tried to ignore. "Of course you didn't. Neither of us was prepared for this, Esme."

"But it's so different for you, Carlisle. You've discovered that you have this wonderful gift—"

"It is not a _gift, _Esme. It is a function. One I have no use for."

His argument was elegant and quick, and even though I wanted so badly to agree with him, I could not. That he dared to discredit his ability to procreate actually sickened me. It was so unlike him.

"Your God would disagree with you," I snapped at him under my breath, unable to help my caustic tone.

His fingers dug deeper into my kneecap, demanding explanation. "What on earth does that mean?"

I stared straight into his eyes and quoted the Bible in a mocking voice. "'_Be fruitful and multiply_.' Or am I misunderstanding the meaning behind those words?"

The regret I felt was instantaneous; a blow of hurricane force to my aching heart. Carlisle seemed to shrink before me, looking utterly offended and torn apart. His hand dropped away from my knee as he looked up at me with something in his eyes I had never seen before. Disgust.

Wretched didn't even begin to describe how I felt. I knew I had gone too far, but it was too late to take it back.

"You want to complicate this? Is that what you are trying to do?" he challenged me, his eyes a dark and piercing contrast to the pallor of his face.

I shook my head idly, attempting to reach out for his cheek. "No."

But as he stood up to his full height, I withdrew my hand and cowered in my chair. His statuesque form was made all the more intimidating by the vigorous surge of thunder and lightning that flooded the room. "Really?" he demanded coldly. "Because it seems to me that you just want me to jump through hoops and go around in circles without ever coming to a conclusion that will satisfy you." He paced aimlessly around his study as he rambled in various strains of European accent, employing erratic hand gestures to illustrate his point while he spoke. If I hadn't been so horrified by our predicament, the sight of him right now would have probably been comical.

"No, Carlisle, don't! Please! I didn't mean it like that!"

My panic heightened when he didn't acknowledge my cries. He moved to the windows and closed some of the curtains, drawing a feeling of finality to our conversation. A heavy, cold sensation settled in my stomach. We couldn't end it this way.

"Carlisle!" I hissed in the darkness, trying to get some kind of reaction from him. I succeeded in earning just a fleeting glance, but it was enough to assure me that he had not forgotten me entirely.

I tried to follow his movement, but my eyes were lost. His silhouette swept in and out of angular shadows, confusing me to the point of dizziness. Then suddenly a beautiful red sparkle of light appeared in the far corner of the room, and my nose was assaulted by the sweet sting of sulfur.

A gasp filled my lungs as he lit a tall candle on the very corner of his desk, and the flame did not grow slowly but rather shot up at once, as if one poke of the match had startled it out of its hiding place.

I breathed out in hesitant relief as I watched him extinguish the match and cup the flame of the candle with his hand, nursing it to full height before he backed away. I looked up at him as the candle stood shyly between us, shivering in the wake of our cold stares.

With the proper glow of fire to help, I could now see a look of profound sadness in his eyes. It was proof enough that he had felt the need to resolve his anguish by lighting a candle. That had always been Carlisle's way of warding off demons, soothing his emotions, comforting himself in times of distress. But for me, that sweet little candle was a sharp slap in the face. It was evidence that I had forced him to his brink, that I had pushed him to the point where facing the world without the light of a candle to guide him was simply undoable.

"I didn't mean what I said before," I whispered vaguely, staring pleadingly up at him from across the desk as if he were some idol on an altar.

His head turned to stare hopelessly out the rainy window as he sighed. "I don't know why you would say something like that," he murmured, avoiding my eyes.

I gasped defensively, dangerously close to crying again. "Maybe I said it because I was angry and I wasn't thinking!"

His hands flew to his forehead before coming down sharply at his sides. He seemed disturbingly desperate now as he steeled himself, trying to keep his voice steady. "Esme, I understand how you feel. You are confused, and frustrated, and you are remembering a great loss you had in your human life."

"That has nothing to do with it!" My denial, though spoken harshly, was pathetic. If the loss of my infant son had anything to do with my emotional turmoil at present, it hadn't crossed my mind until now.

"I think that it does, sweetheart," Carlisle argued, his unfailingly gentle voice cracking with exhaustion. The candle between us seemed to flicker in agreement. "It has a great deal to do with why you are upset."

The news of Bella's pregnancy was not inherently _bad_. Could it be some latent residue from my past that had sparked such a strong and negative reaction in me? Even if Carlisle was right, I still didn't want to admit it.

"Don't try to tell me what I'm feeling!" I yelped awkwardly as I slammed my hands down on his desk, causing several pens to roll onto the floor. "You say you understand, but you don't! You don't at all!"

In one swift movement, he rounded the corner of his desk, crouched down beside me and turned my chair to face him. "Then _help _me to understand, Esme. If I'm suddenly so terrible at reading you after all these years, please enlighten me." His voice had a hint of uncharacteristic coldness to it, and the weariness in his face was breaking my heart.

"You can't understand what I'm feeling because _you_ have no reason to feel guilty," I accused.

"Neither do you," he said with sweet, stern defiance.

"Then why do I feel this way, Carlisle? Why?" I reached out and grabbed his collar, tugging it with every syllable. "Why do I feel so guilty if I have no reason to?" I threw my neck back and stared imploringly at the ceiling.

He scrambled slightly closer to me and used both his hands to steady me, tilting my face back down to stare at him. "Because what you are feeling right now is irrational. You are stressed and overwhelmed, and for good reason. You still aren't able to think clearly."

A clap of thunder hiccupped overhead, then exploded into a cascade of crackling noises, like failed fireworks. I shuddered at the sound and began to take out my frustration by banging my fists on my knees like a child. "I don't want you to diagnose me, Carlisle!"

"Then what _do _you want me to do?" he demanded, his face hard and handsome, so close to mine. "Everything I've tried so far has offended you to the point of incoherence, and quite frankly, I'm afraid to even continue." At this point he seemed utterly jaded, and his irritation frightened me. I could feel the heat of our crossfire building up around me like a cloud of unbearably hot smoke. I was suffocating under the weight of my suppressed words and emotions. I needed to free myself.

"Oh, I'm sorry I'm so irate and volatile, Carlisle! I'm sorry you can't just knock me out with an injection like you can with the rest of your unruly patients!" I hardly realized my hands were flailing about unpredictably as I shouted, so it came as a surprise to me when Carlisle quickly flinched out of the way to protect himself when my hand came a little too close to his face.

The moment itself wasn't striking in any way. It was what happened immediately after that came as a wakeup call for me. It was the look on his face, the sheer alarm, the dilated darkness of defense blooming in his beautiful eyes that sent me stuttering back into reality.

In the rare instance that one of us felt physically threatened by the other, it more than often stemmed from my past abusive marriage. I was so unaccustomed to seeing Carlisle on the defense, it put me in a state of complete shock.

He'd thought I was going to hit him.

All at once, it brought to light his extreme sensitivity, his notoriously gentle and non-confrontational nature. Could I have really been so raging and delirious that he'd felt the need to protect himself from my hand?

My eyes dropped instantly to the place where my own hands had earlier torn through his sweater, and a pang of sadness struck me. Unable to face him, my eyes instead drifted over to the sleek golden flame that bobbed dreamily on the candle wick. I stared at it for a long while, bemused and terrified as my husband's raspy breathing slowed beside me.

"For God's sake, Esme. Everything I say..." My eyes were bruised by the light of the candle, blotting out my vision of his face when I looked tentatively back at him. He rubbed his temples with his thumbs, his eyes squeezed shut in consumed exhaustion. "You're forcing me to tiptoe over a minefield with you."

His vilifying metaphor rendered me speechless. All I could do was sit in his chair, paralyzed with shame. After he had massaged all the tension from his forehead, he finally looked up at me, his strong chin perched on his steepled fingers. He looked as if he were asking God for strength as closed his eyes briefly and tried again.

"We've crossed a line, Esme," he stated, deep and calm. "A line we both promised we would never cross."

"Our disagreement became an argument," I recited tremulously, feeling about as small as a baby doll in the large leather throne.

"Yes..." he nodded in careful agreement, "but we've come awfully close to letting that argument become a fight."

I swallowed hard and looked down at my feet in humiliation. His hand crept onto my shoulder, fingers lazily lifting locks of my hair to move them out of the way.

"I will disagree with you occasionally, Esme. And I will even argue with you if I feel it is absolutely necessary. But one thing I never want to do is fight with you."

As badly as I wanted to reach up and touch his hand on my shoulder, I resisted, still stony from our verbal dart storm. "I don't want to fight with you either," I muttered, wringing my hands.

"Then we must both commit to it now. We must make every effort to sort through this as sensibly and calmly as possible. Can I have your word that we will not lose our tempers with one another?"

I nodded somewhat curtly, feeling more and more like a helpless puppy who was being reprimanded by her owner. Carlisle had a bothersome habit for patronizing others without realizing it. One more thing to add fuel to the fire still stirring inside me. For now, I had to tamp it down as I'd promised. But I had to admit I didn't know how long I would last...

"Alright. I have your word." If he was trying to get me to confirm it somehow, I would have to find a way to do it without kissing him. So I nodded again, a bit more forcefully this time.

He didn't look convinced, but he continued anyway. "Why don't we start over? I'll let you talk first, and I won't interrupt while you tell me exactly what you are feeling, and why."

I stared at him warily for a second, wondering if he really knew what he was asking of me. But like a good wife, I took a deep breath and prepared to tell him everything he wanted to hear.

"I feel jealous of Bella because she can carry a child, but I also feel sorry for her because she hasn't gotten much say in whether she gets to keep her baby or not. I also feel angry with Edward's decision to abort the baby, and even angrier with you for indulging him in that decision. And I feel guilty that I can't give you a child, and I'm also jealous of you because you _can _produce children, and I feel like you'll never understand what I'm feeling because every time I try to explain it to you, you just assume that I—"

"Shh, shh. Breathe, Esme," he interjected, clasping both my shoulders in his hands. "Just, take a pause and breathe."

I nearly kicked him. "I thought you said you weren't going to interrupt me!"

He winced and withdrew his hands. "I'm sorry, you're right. Go on. Just...one thing at a time?"

I huffed and began again. "When I found out that it was possible for you to have children... I felt like it put a distance between us." The air in the room turned cold again, like hot water being infiltrated by blocks of ice. I folded my hands tightly together and looked up to the ceiling. "I know it's wrong, but I feel like _I'm _keeping you from having what you really want."

"That couldn't be further from the truth." His whisper was so warm, I simply had to close my eyes and let those stubborn flecks of anger dissolve within me.

"But there is a truth to it," I countered, more gently this time. "Our bodies aren't compatible, Carlisle."

My heart fluttered exultantly as he framed my face with his hands and forced me to look at him. "It would take only one night for me to remind you that our bodies are _more _than compatible, Esme," he purred invitingly, his eyes glittering with excitement at the prospect of proving me wrong. "Besides, our situation is exactly the same as it was since the day we were married. We cannot have a biological child together. That is all."

I shook my head tiredly, trying to hold onto what little patience his kindness had inspired in me. "But we now know that you have the potential to create children, and I do not."

His responding sigh mirrored my exhaustion. "I would hope that we could continue to live with this new knowledge, and it wouldn't have to alter our relationship," he murmured despondently.

I frowned and glanced at the candle. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" I was surprised to hear another strike of irritation in his tone. "Why is this so hard for you to accept?"

"Because I _know _you, Carlisle. Your curiosity will overwhelm you. You'll start writing about it in your journals, and inquiring God about it when you go to church. You will wonder about it constantly. You want a biological child as desperately as I do. And now that you know it is possible for you to have that, I think you might..."

A spark of something much hotter than lightning flashed in his eyes. "Might what?" he whispered warningly.

"Might ... fantasize about it. And you won't admit it to me because you're too good and you don't want to hurt me by making me think that it's my fault you can't be a father and—"

I was cut off again, this time not by an exhausted sigh or a barking argument, but by a lush, fiery kiss.

I struggled against him for no more than a few seconds before submitting myself entirely to his intensely determined lips.

"First of all, I _am _a father," he declared before kissing me a second time. "Secondly, you _are _a mother." He pushed another forceful kiss to my mouth, gathering my jaw in his hands so I had no means of escape. "Thirdly, I _will _fantasize about having a baby. But that fantasy will only ever involve _you_ as the woman who carries my child." His final kiss was rougher than the first three, but his voice was more gentle than ever when he spoke. "Now, my love, what can I say to you that will allow us to put this conversation to rest once and for all?"

Breathless and startled by what he had just done to me, I sat for a moment, shuddering in my chair until my words came back to me.

"Nothing, until I apologize to you."

He was already shaking his head, a grim half-smile on his face. "Don't you dare, Esme. I know exactly what you're going to apologize for, and I never want to hear it again."

I told him anyway.

"I'm sorry I can't carry your child."

He knew I was going to say it no matter how much he discouraged me. Lightning flushed his face with wild white light, and a softer growl of thunder stirred the walls. He almost looked victorious. Instead of chiding me for disobeying him, he replied with calm conviction. "I'm not."

"Why?" I whimpered in disbelief.

"Because I am your husband. I made a vow to you. I chose to marry you. I have loved you for ninety years, and nothing will _ever _keep me from loving you until the end of time." He recited the words like amendments, with tender confidence and sincere eyes. At the end of his simple speech, he stood up and stepped back from me and was silent for a long time while the rain poured down outside.

It made me want to cry when I thought about the things I had said to him, but even more when I thought about what he had said to me. And the worst of it was what he was doing to me right now – waiting patiently behind me at a distance, vigilantly allowing his words to sink further into me as masterfully as he would watch the ink dry on one of his journal pages. At times like this, Carlisle's wisdom was both belittling and beautiful. He knew I was stinging from the blow of his gentleness more than my own personal pain.

Regret filled me so fully I felt like I was made of lead. I looked pleadingly up at him where he stood at a distance, his countenance as peaceful and untainted as a saint's. I wanted to burst from my chair and run to him and throw myself into his embrace, but the lead of regret kept me from springing forward. I was trapped by my own shame, and damaged by my own pride.

All I could do was stare at him with begging eyes until he finally came back to me.

Sparkling reflections of raindrops decorated the walls as he came forward, emerging from the shadows and into the rose-gold beam cast by the candle. Without a word he extended both his hands to me, and when I took them, he pulled me up to stand in front of him.

I was overcome with a brief stab of horror as he let go of my hands and began to twist his wedding ring off of his finger. But he silenced my panic with a reassuring kiss to my forehead before he set the ring in the center of my palm.

I stared up at him at a complete loss, searching for the meaning behind his enigmatic offering.

"I want you to put it back on my finger," he explained softly. "To confirm that you still want me as your husband."

Though his request was ridiculous, and I certainly did not need to hesitate, I made him wait for it anyway. I traced the golden band over and over, cradling it in my palm while the rain tickled the window panes and the thunder seduced me to draw out the torture.

I relished the look of comfort in his eyes while he waited for me to comply, both of us knowing there was no possibility of that ring ever resting on another man's finger. It seemed almost impossible that I could be feeling this way now, considering the pain and tears I had been through not minutes before. But as I held out for a few moments longer before fulfilling Carlisle's request, I felt an inescapable storm of love surging within me.

In the end, I was the one who lost my patience. My fingers fumbled frantically with the ring as I lifted it to my lips, kissed it, and hastily slid it back onto my husband's waiting finger. He thanked me without words, his face lit by a flash of lightning that acted as a torch of honesty. We came together then like water and soil, virtually inseparable once we had merged.

The color of his face somehow deepened in the dusk, and he hid his mysterious blush by burrowing his nose into the curve of my neck. His lips peppered my skin with kisses, mocking the raindrops as they pattered endlessly against the roof.

We murmured our "_I love you_"'s back and forth between clumsy kisses, and our "_Forgive me_"'s as we stumbled our way towards the door, leaving the lit candle unattended.

The distance of the short hallway seemed daunting when I was so desperate to find refuge in our bed. Minutes prior I should have been repulsed by the idea of letting him make love to me – but I could admit to myself now that our heated argument had done nothing but fan the flames of my already burgeoning desire for him. Our scathing shouts and desperate retaliations had proved more effective foreplay than our kisses and caresses.

The door to our bedroom hadn't been opened for a few days. Inside the room was colder than usual, and it smelled more like the forest than the interior of a home, like heather and burning cedar. The carpet beneath my feet was a welcome change from the hard wood floors in the hall. I immediately felt some of the tension flee my body as my husband continued kissing me in the darkness.

The one window in our bedroom was just a sleek plane of glass that stretched along an entire wall. It overlooked the forest behind the house, offering a view of the steep hillside, mostly obscured by towering Ponderosa pines. The storm made the woods look misty and gloomy, like an unfinished watercolor painting. Carlisle became a part of the painting as he stood by the window, shedding layers of clothing just as the trees outside shed their leaves in the wind.

His pale flesh shimmered in the watery light from the window, milky jade in color. The soft scrape of pine needles brushed against the glass, as if the branches were trying to reach out and touch him. He dropped his clothes onto a nearby armchair until he was completely nude, facing me with his back to the forest. He beckoned me towards him with a raised hand, which I accepted thoughtlessly.

As his fingers worked to undress me I realized this would be the first time I allowed my husband to make love to me, with the knowledge that he was still fertile. As fertile as he had been as a human. As fertile as the forest outside our window.

The stray thought made me cringe. I tried to bury it in the back of my mind, but it did no more good than burying a seed in a bed of soil. It plagued me ceaselessly even as I felt my body growing barer and barer with each article of clothing Carlisle peeled away from me. My eyes were blank as he finally pressed against me, skin to skin, his hands roaming my back.

For minutes we stood by the window just like that, locked in a strange, dancing embrace. Sorrow tugged at my gut like a claw when I felt the gentle nudge of his arousal against my thigh. That part of him whose primal purpose was to create life, and still could, touching me – a sterile, cold, and empty vessel. I had no warm bed of soil within me to nurse the seed he would give me. He claimed to love me regardless, but how could he not hate my body for denying him such a gift?

"Aren't you going to touch me?" His voice was diffident and quiet, and it startled me out of my reverie. I hadn't realized my hands were still idle at my sides until he spoke. I quickly curved my arms beneath his, cupping his shoulders with my hands to pull him closer to me. The last thing I wanted was for my touch to feel insincere.

Helpless pleasure soared through me when I felt his tongue trace the shell of my ear. He whispered something no pastor's son should ever whisper to a woman, and I whimpered in astonishment, my love for him momentarily drowning any lingering feelings of regret.

He guided me to the bed with purpose, his tongue moving restlessly along my neck. I forced his head straight so that I could kiss him properly as we tumbled onto the mattress, my knees kneading the sides of his chest. Our kiss ended abruptly as he lifted his head to stare down at me. His eyes were flashing bright with urgency, flickering between my face and the exquisitely cramp space where our loins were aligned. I followed his gaze out of curiosity to find the tip of his sex gleaming with a taunting promise.

His face turned apologetic as he stared down at our nearly linked bodies. "It's going to be quick," he warned breathlessly, wincing in pleasure as I accidentally bucked my hips against his. I nodded incoherently while he slipped his hand between my thighs and his fingers began to flutter against me with determination.

I was so close to reaching the pinnacle of bliss, but echoes from our argument that evening began to infiltrate my mind.

_It is not a gift, Esme. It is a function. One I have no use for._

I cringed at the memory of Carlisle's careless words, still wondering in the back of my mind if he thought them to be true.

_You are confused, and frustrated, and you are remembering a great loss you had in your human life._

A great loss, indeed. And how could I ever be expected to recover from such a loss? How could I, when I had no possibility of ever getting back what was taken from me?

_It would take only one night for me to remind you that our bodies are more than compatible, Esme._

Was that what he was doing right now? Reminding me just how well we fit together, physically and spiritually? Forcing me to feel the weight of his affection in such a lovely and erotic way, with no means to an end, no purpose, no manifestation to show the rest of the world?

_Be fruitful and multiply..._

My body shuddered in dismay, even as my husband foraged faithfully through me, assaulting me with love until I went utterly numb in his arms. He cried out feverishly in his pursuit of pleasure, his eyes burning deep and determined, his muscles full and firm from exertion.

_Be fruitful and multiply..._

I began to sob as the words sank in, holding me back from the bliss that lay just within my reach. And so in ironic timeliness, I lost my climax as my husband lost his control.

I felt the familiar sensation of him trembling inside of me, the warm release of his pleasure deep in my womb. It had never hurt me before, but tonight the pain was unbearable. I wanted to push him away from me, out of me, off of me. I wanted to rid myself of him because in that moment he represented something beautiful that I could never have. Instead I feigned my own ecstasy for his sake, gripping him as tightly and convincingly as I could, disguising the quivering of my sobs with false shudders of pleasure.

I watched him with despondent fondness nonetheless as his eyes fluttered and his lips murmured loving nonsense above me. His fingers, still shaking, traveled artfully up and down my body, worshiping me without reason. Each caress strengthened my guilt and each time he whispered my name, I wanted to weep.

His burden relieved at last, he withdrew and rolled off of me, tucked against my side. He tugged the sheets over us and laid his arm around my head, kissing my hair absently as he rested on the pillows. I envied his fulfillment in that moment, deeply regretting the fact that I had fooled him so effortlessly into believing I was also satisfied.

I had no will left within me to tell him the truth. It would only upset him, and he didn't deserve to endure any more pain on this night.

I would endure it for him.

The storm subsided slowly outside while I listened to his steady breathing. Occasionally he would whisper something sweet against the top of my head and I would force myself to smile. But even worse was when his fingers would drift into intimate dangers along my body, posing a taunting threat to my delicate state. Despite my anger and resentment and frustration with everything, I still craved release.

Rather than risk his suspicion, I gently encouraged his hand to roam elsewhere, directing his fingers to play with my hair instead. He conceded happily, and I couldn't help but be warmed slightly by his boyish glee.

After a while he grew tired of twirling my tendrils, and he eased away from me, content to relinquish some personal space.

Even though I knew it was the natural course of events after lovemaking, I couldn't help but feel hurt by the distance he'd subtly put between us. Even worse was the way the sheets slipped off his body entirely when he'd shifted aside.

I peeked helplessly over to where he reclined beside me, his body strong and firm and white, his nude thighs resting on the pillows like sturdy slopes of snow. Even in my irrational cloud of dismay, I could always appreciate Carlisle's ethereal beauty. My lips curved in a sad, secret smile as I watched him close his eyes and nestle his blond head deeper into his pillow. One of his hands played absently with the pillow tassels, while his other hand lifted experimentally into the shaft of greenish after-storm light that came through the window. He strummed mid-air with his fingers, causing them to twinkle for his own private amusement, oblivious to my watchful eyes.

More than ever, my body still ached for him. I rolled over to face the other way, trying to curb the temptation but to no avail. I heard his head shift on the pillow, and I knew that he noticed.

"Are you all right?" he whispered, his voice roughened by love making.

I closed my hand over my mouth and nodded unconvincingly.

I felt his fingers brush my bare back, touched by his concern. "Esme..."

When I did not respond, he shifted across the bed and wrapped his arms around me from behind, drawing me against his chest. His lips pressed lightly along my cheek as he whispered, "Don't think about it."

We both knew what he was talking about, which made it even harder to ignore. Sorrow escaped me in a tiny whimper, and Carlisle gently forced me around to face him. As much as I wanted to resist, the way he cradled me so perfectly in his arms was too wonderful to deny. In the moment our eyes locked, I could see the remaining embers of two fires in his gaze. One had been hot and red and angry – that was the fire started by our argument. And the other was silky, warm, and golden – that was the fire of our love. I had still yet to savor the flames of the second fire, and I was beginning to think my husband could tell that something was amiss.

When I saw him draw breath to speak, I swiftly broke in. "Humans procreate by pleasure, and we procreate by pain." My voice may have been empty, but to me, my words were undeniably true.

Carlisle looked down at me sadly, his eyes searching my face for a weakness, a spot of me that was not so resolute. "When I turned you into a vampire, I did not think of that as procreation," he countered quietly. "It was more like... _re_creation." His finger caressed my lower lip, and I couldn't help but squirm when I saw the sparkle in his eyes.

"How long did you live before someone told you that vampires couldn't have children?" I asked after a while.

He looked hesitant to answer me, but he did anyway, his voice heavy with regret. "To be quite honest, it was something I had assumed from the beginning." He swallowed thickly and looked down. "The Volturi confirmed it for me sometime later."

Pity crept back into my chest as I imagined the cruel and callous manner in which the Volturi would have revealed such news to my sensitive husband.

"But it doesn't matter anymore," he murmured hastily before I could comfort him. He placed a quick kiss on my forehead and tightened his embrace. "I have everything I've always wanted now. A wife, children." The deep contentment in his voice only made me more brooding.

"You could have a grandchild, too, Carlisle," I reminded him darkly.

Palpable tension coiled through his limbs as he held me. "I know... but I mustn't make a selfish decision either," he pointed out. "It could come down to either Bella's life or the baby's."

The way he said it gave me chills. I was not used to hearing Carlisle sound so grave and uncertain. I hated it.

I shook my head against his chest, trying to sort out a growing storm of emotions. "Just promise me you'll do what _you _think is right, not what Edward thinks is right. As terrible as it sounds, I just don't trust our son when it comes to Bella. After all, she has driven him to the brink of suicide before."

"Shh. I promise I will do what I believe is best for our family. I don't want you to worry about this anymore, Esme. We'll take whatever comes our way one day at a time. For now, just live in this moment with me?"

I nodded against his chin, and this time I finally felt that my resolution was genuine. I let him tip my chin up to kiss him, and as my lips blossomed open beneath his, I let go of everything but this moment.

Dusk descended in our room, painting the glass with streaks of blue mist and green rain. But inside we were safe together, hugging violently, hands roaming, buried in each other. And when the time came for a second chance, I found my pleasure as effortlessly as he did, and we were equals again. He came to me like a rushing waterfall, lunging into my body, bursting and full of vigor. A shock of renewal swept through me when we drew to a shuddering close; our bare bodies finally collapsed together, a tangled mess of spent souls.

I knew in the far reaches of my heart that I would always hold some piece of regret that my husband could not have a child because of me; because my body was not capable where his was. Regret there would be, but never resentment. I loved Carlisle too much to resent him for anything. No argument, no matter how heated, could ever make me forget that.

It was forever a strange sensation to me, to put my full trust in one man. My whole life I'd been doing it with Carlisle, even before I knew him. Still, I felt that trusting him was like lying face up on a stallion's back as it galloped into the wilderness. There was a constant thrill to letting him carry me, but I knew that he was strong, and he would do everything in his power to never let me fall.

* * *

**I was originally going to write this as a stand-alone piece, but after developing it a bit more I decided it would fit well as the color gray in this compilation. As sad as it can be for me to imagine Carlisle and Esme in an argument over such a sensitive topic, it is strangely exhilarating to write. I love exploring those parts of their relationship that aren't so rosy all the time. Hopefully this came across as realistic and not too dramatic! **

**I would love it if you let me know your thoughts! Thanks for reading!**


	13. Burgundy

**Inspired by Burgundy**

**Medium: Ink on Carpet**

* * *

_September 1922_

_~Carlisle_

It had been precisely one month and twelve days since I'd become a married man.

Married life, while utterly blissful, was certainly not an escape from reality. During those first few weeks, Esme and I touched more than we talked. There were awkward times between us - times when we used touching to escape talking - but this was to be expected. Though we knew each other more intimately than anyone else in the world, we still did not know everything there was to know about the other.

There were still things I fantasized about, things I still kept to myself. In the privacy of my mind, I still imagined her doing things and saying things she hadn't said or done yet. Many blank journal pages were blackened by secrets she could not yet know. I knew that I had an eternity still to experience everything with Esme, but my heart was impatient. Every day a part of me was on edge, waiting to see what new quirk she might unveil to me, her shy yet passionate husband. I often wondered if she knew me well enough to know what I was really thinking about.

Esme had changed since we'd been married. More so since we had made love. I noticed something different in the way she carried herself. She had a certainty of movement, an assuredness of step. She was less rushed, calmer, but only very slightly so. If there had been any tension etched into her body before, it had been smoothed out. It was as if I had swept my hand over a tablecloth and chased away the wrinkles until they disappeared.

She no longer arched her shoulders ever so slightly when she stood alone. Now she held her chin parallel to the ground and let her shoulders relax. She still watched every move I made with wonder, but there was no more inexplicable shimmer of fear in her eyes when she did. Now there was only a knowing gleam, a warm affection. A glow of security and contentment.

I imagined I must have looked at her in much the same way.

Since I'd married Esme, I had changed.

The changes were almost too profound to detect in the beginning, but I knew that I couldn't hide them from people who knew me well enough. I thought that perhaps the way I carried myself may have changed, too. Did the placement of my shoulders betray my newfound confidence? Were my movements now as smooth and poised as Esme's? Did my eyes reveal the true nature of my pride? There were so many questions I wanted to have answered. I'd foolishly believed that marriage would quell all my questions, but all it did was whet my appetite to learn more about myself, and more about this stunning creature I called my wife.

I could feel a swelling in my soul, the deepest reassurance that I was needed for more than just helping and healing humans. These were no longer the most demanding duties I had to fulfill. There now existed a tier above my duties as a doctor, falling second only to my spiritual devotions, and not very far behind.

I had always thought that my love for Esme would remain constant as it had been on the day we'd met. But I soon learned that our love changed as deeply and as dynamically as we changed ourselves. I was cultivating love with my wife, and that love was like a garden, in need of constant tending. There were good days when the sun would shine, and even better days when the sun and the rain would mingle and dance. Flowers would sprout in our garden, and we would marvel at the new and different colors that blossomed at our feet. Each day was a new discovery, but the seeds we planted took time to grow. There were times when I felt like boasting about the flowers in our garden, but our garden was far from perfect. When my hands started to ache from pulling up the occasional weeds, my wife bent over and pulled them herself. We worked together to keep our garden as close to Eden as possible.

When I was not thinking of her, I was thinking of the feelings she awakened in me. These feelings were truly inescapable. Every morning when I left for the hospital, I was in a sort of mild trance, a tender daze, able to concentrate only on the desires of my heart. One vague thought of my wife could be dangerous if I was not careful. If my hand happened to be hovering over an open body, even the slightest of trembles could ruin me.

It had happened before, and it would happen again. It wasn't Esme's fault that she tempted me even when she was miles away, but I had to wonder if these feelings would ever lessen.

I thought deeply on this while I made my way home one evening from work, eager as ever to quench my need for her presence. Edward was the first to greet me when I arrived at the house, his arms full of cardboard boxes which he had already begun to stack on the front porch.

I eyed the stack of boxes questioningly, awaiting an explanation that never came.

"Ask her," he gestured to the open front door. I ventured cautiously into the foyer.

There was no telling what eccentric little renovation my wife had planned for tonight. Lord knows she was always hatching something.

My smile grew as I slowly made my way into the dark hall, heading towards the drawing room where the faint glow of lamplight came from the doorway. Sure enough, there my lovely wife sat cross-legged on the carpet in the center of the room, buried to her waist in the general brick-a-brack of a house well lived in.

I took a moment to glance around the room before she noticed my presence. There were stacks of books, papers, and folders all pushed against one wall, while the rest of the room was empty except for the few pieces of furniture that she had left in place.

"Doing some rearranging?" I asked as I propped my elbow against the door jamb, smiling at the mess.

Esme flicked away a few strands of hair that had fallen into her eyes and placed her hands on her hips. "I had hoped I'd be finished with it all by the time you came home, but I encountered some...distractions while working."

My smile grew at her obvious confession. As my eyes searched the room, I made a few more surprising observations. One of my sweaters was tucked around her hips, as if she'd had it draped over her shoulders and it had fallen off while she was working. A pair of my boots, propped against the fireplace, enhanced my suspicions that my wife had been recently raiding my wardrobe. I wondered why.

"This room looks quite large without all the clutter," I remarked neutrally as I stepped inside.

I was surprised to see a pout form on her lips. "I like clutter," she mumbled, her fingers twisting around an old lace handkerchief.

"I've never expressed any negative feelings towards clutter, have I?" I playfully nudged her hip with the toe of my shoe until she looked up at me, a reluctant grin fighting its way onto her face.

"I heard a tone," she said with a suspicious squint.

I feigned chagrin as I quickly covered my mouth with my hand. She laughed loudly and my heart shook with the sound.

"I'm glad you're here," she sighed, her eyes still sparkling with humor as she stared adoringly up at me. "I could use some help, actually."

"Oh?" I carefully surveyed the threatening pile of odds and ends surrounding her. "With what?"

She reached into the pile and extracted a small brass sculpture of a child carrying a basket. "I've just spent the last several hours polishing these old antiques. I'm only halfway done."

Her eyes were hopeful as she looked up at me, but my desires were unrelenting.

"I'm an antique," I said, almost proudly. "I'm in need of a good polish." It may have been an improper way to imply that I wasn't exactly interested, but I knew Esme always took everything I said with a grain of salt.

Her eyes slowly scanned me up and down, but there was a glow to her cheeks when she finally reached my face. "You look perfectly polished to me."

I felt a pleasurable flutter of heat in my belly as I lowered myself to the floor beside her. I surprised even myself as my fingers began to casually undo my necktie while never taking my eyes off of Esme's face. I felt every one of her shallow breaths on my jaw as I guided her fingers to my chest and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

"Carlisle... Edward's just outside." She was hesitant.

"He sees us anyway," I pointed out, my voice gravelly.

"That doesn't give us the right to be inconsiderate." Her gentle admonishment gave me a fleeting moment of guilt.

I slowly pulled away with a sigh. "It's been a long day."

"For us both," she added crisply. The next thing I knew, a grimy old candlestick was being shoved into my open hand. "Now get to polishing."

Though I had no objections to helping my wife with common housework, my frustration over our ruined moment had me shamefully close to tears. Had I truly been inconsiderate of my son's feelings and not recognized it? Was I presumptuous to think that Esme's desires were as flagrant and constant as my own? Was my recent behavior going to become a permanent habit, or was it just a natural phase that all newly married men have to endure?

In any case, my thoughts were still as persistent as a gladiator in a lion's den. No matter how I tried to concentrate, my eyes kept wandering to Esme's fingers as she scrubbed the corners of an old picture frame. I was fascinated by the way she moved her fingers, so sedulously, with such intention. She could pluck the strings of her harp and wash the bristles of her paintbrushes all day long, and I could still fill pages upon pages about how beautiful it was to watch her.

To think that months ago I could do nothing but fantasize about the way she would touch _me_. Lord help me, sometimes when she held a pencil or twisted a doorknob I _still _fantasized. I'd felt her fingers everywhere on my body. Twinkling in the sunlight, warmed by the heat of a summer day. Wet and glistening with venom and bathwater. Completely invisible in the ebony shadows of our bedroom on a moonless night. And still, my mind demanded more. More.

And naturally I noticed more than just her fingers. She was wearing a pink dress tonight. It wasn't the chaste kind of porcelain pink one saw little girls wearing while they held their mother's hand. It was a rich, vibrant shade of pink that looked like it would be literally warm to the touch. Like a carnation blooming under firelight. It made me feel the need to breathe harder for some reason. Or perhaps that had more to do with how tight the dress was, particularly around her bust. It seemed to have less structure than so many of her other dresses. It had no zippers, or buttons, or laces - just one loose knot that formed a sleepy bow beneath her breasts. Her skin, velvet and supple, glowed like pearl against the pink fabric. Her beautifully bare shoulders, her swanlike throat, her generous cleavage...

"Any chance you could do that a little more slowly?" Esme's voice interrupted my thoughts. I looked down at the candlestick in my hands, then back to her, startled to find a sly twinkle in her eye.

"Just being thorough," I responded softly, making sure to give her a lingering glance before being absorbed in my task.

It was not the easiest thing in the world to clean away ten years' worth of dust and grime away from aged brass. It wasn't so much the effort it required, but rather the patience. I was a patient man when it came to many things, but cleaning was not one of them. I just didn't have the willpower or motivation necessary to complete such a task.

I was hesitant to admit it even to myself, but I was growing bored. And when a man is bored, it is incredibly easy for him to find distractions, particularly when there is a beautiful woman sitting right across from him.

Even as twilight dimmed outside the window, the lamp in the corner of the room glowed steadily, drawing a gentle wreath of light around her hair. Her pale face looked like amber porcelain - her forehead perfectly smooth, even in deep concentration - and her rosy lips set in a plush pout.

I wanted nothing more than to give her a ravenous kiss.

"You know, if you stopped staring at me and concentrated, you'd be finished with that by now."

I swallowed hard and simply continued to stare, not batting an eyelash. "I can't help myself."

She looked up at me expectantly, her voice quiet and coy. "Doctor?"

That was when I leaned over and kissed her, rather forcefully, on the mouth. I pulled back just as quickly as I'd invaded her space, eyes wide and receptive to her response.

Her breath left her lips in a startled gasp, but in her eyes I saw a pleasure so keen it glimmered like gemstones in the light of the lamp. Before I knew it, my mouth was flush against hers again. Only this time, _she _had been the one to startle me with a sudden kiss.

I smiled against her roaming lips, secretly satisfied by how plain it was that she had wanted me all along. Her fingers dragged through my hair in repetitive motions, as if she were scrubbing the head of a muddy child with soap. It felt so good...

She kissed me several more times on the mouth, each one a succinct slap of pressure from her lips to mine - like mismatched punctuation, stubbornly trying to end this conversation. She held my head between her hands to keep me at bay as she pulled away. Her eyes swept over my face fondly, filling me with hopeful warmth for what was to come.

"I need to finish this project, Carlisle," she stated, tilting her head toward the pile of aged trinkets beside us on the carpet.

My heart tumbled into my gut.

She only grinned at my pout. "But I appreciate the kisses," she added in a low voice, playfully prodding my lower lip with one elegant finger.

I managed to touch the tip of my tongue to her finger before she could snatch it away. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. As sweet as Esme was, she could be such a terrible tease.

She looked very satisfied with herself as she scooted away from me on the carpet and returned to her precious rubbish.

"Would you like me to keep helping you?" I offered, a bit desperate to move this along as quickly as possible.

"Actually I'd prefer it if you didn't," she admitted, then looked me up and down with a grin. "You're just a big blond distraction."

I crossed my arms, biting my lip to keep from laughing. "I'm sorry you feel that way. What would you have me do, then?"

"Go to your study," she ordered, like a mother sending her child off to bed. Then her eyes met mine, dark and adoring, and she was suddenly anything but motherly. "I'll be there as soon as I've finished."

All it took was for me to hear the distinct note of promise hidden in her voice, and I practically bolted out of the room.

I was certain I heard my son bolting out of the house at precisely the same time.

The second I closed the door to my study, I felt a rush of impossible adrenaline. For some indecipherable reason I was nervous for what was to come. I didn't know what I should do to prepare for her, if anything. Was she expecting something from me? Had she caught onto my hints, or did she just assume we would spend the night reading poetry to each other and counting stars out the window?

On an embarrassing train of thought, I briefly considered taking off all of my clothes while I waited. If she found me completely naked when she opened the door, that would leave no questions at all about where I'd thought our evening was headed. But before I could act on such a ridiculous whim, the bashful pastor's son in me decided that was too presumptuous, too crass to even consider.

I took a long breath and shook my head to clear out those thoughts. _What did I think I was doing? _Sometimes I just wasn't sure if I had adjusted to this marriage as fully as I thought I had. A part of me often wondered if Esme worried about these kinds of things. Did she still wonder what I thought of her? Did she spend all day preparing for me to come home from work at night, talking herself in and out of plans for the evening just to please me? Did she ever have those wayward worries that she might say something or do something that would suddenly cause me to reject her as my wife? Because I wondered these things. I still wondered, all the time. Whether it was conscious or not was irrelevant. I knew that I was still lacking confidence about certain things, still misinterpreting signals, still afraid to ask her certain questions, still avoiding eye contact when it came time to take the covers off my nude body and rise out of bed in the morning.

I groaned and buried my face in my hands, discouraged by the familiar downward spiral. As usual, my compassionate conscience started to babble off comforting nonsense to make me feel better. _It has nothing to do with you, this is normal. Completely normal. Forty-three days is barely any time at all. Couples who are married for several months are still considered newlyweds..._

As I paced around my study, I mindlessly discarded my shoes, my necktie, and my sweater. I touched random books on the shelves and tugged the curtains as I passed the windows. I adjusted the placement of some furniture. I lit a few candles. Then I blew them out. I inhaled the smoke and felt a little more relaxed.

After some serious contemplation I sat at my desk, plucked the buttons on the cuffs of my sleeves and opened my journal. Then I twisted a new tip onto my fountain pen and began to write what my kind-hearted conscience was telling me.

_You've been intimate with Esme thirty-one times since you married her. Thirty-one. That may not be once per day, but it's quite a lot given how many hours you work and how often Edward is in the house. You've taken her in broad daylight, and in the bathtub, and on your bedroom floor. You've let her take control, and you've shared your feelings with her when she has asked you to. You've kissed her 794 times in total since you met her - that's almost a thousand. You've touched every inch of her body, and you've let her touch every inch of yours. _

I lifted my pen, refilled the ink, and turned the page. This time, I did not hear the gentle praise of my conscience but rather the impassioned disparagement of the _other man_. The virile, demanding, insatiable beast inside of me that always desired something more.

_You've only been intimate with Esme thirty-one times. There are days when you are not intimate with her at all, and you always blame it on work or on Edward. You have still not done anything outside of your bedroom or the bathroom. You have not even asked Esme if she wants to do anything outside of the bedroom. You've only kissed her 794 times. That leaves approximately 206 missed opportunities during the course of the last few months where you could have easily stolen an extra kiss. You've touched her everywhere on her body, yes, but there are far more ways than one to touch a woman. There are places on her body you have not yet kissed. There are things you've wanted to say to her but have not been brave enough to say yet. There are other rooms in this house besides the bedroom that are perfectly fit for lovemaking. There's a solarium, and a ballroom, and a library, and a wine cellar, and a study..._

My inner beast really knew how to hurt me.

I stopped writing and tossed my pen aside, leaning back in my chair as I closed my eyes and tried to think encouraging thoughts. I thought back on the morning after our wedding night, how brave and open we'd both been with each other about our feelings. It was the first and only time we'd made love somewhere other than our bedroom, and even though the bath was not quite as adventurous as the greenhouse or the balcony, at least it was something different.

Now that I thought about it, those first few nights we spent together were really the most admirable. We didn't have to worry about Edward walking in on us, or about whether I would have to work a double shift. We made love when we both felt the need arise, but mostly we just lay together, utterly bare, and poured out our souls to each other. We talked for hours, we laughed, we whispered secrets. We kissed. And on the second night, we explored each other's bodies with our hands until there was no inch left untouched. Everything that we felt we had neglected on our first night together, we sought closure for on that second night. In some ways I considered it even more spectacular than our first. Where it had been cool and clear on our wedding night, there was no moon to guide us on this night. It rained hard all night long - hot, heavy rain - but no wind. When the rain ceased there was utter stillness. No light, just thick sweet darkness. Then the rain would begin again, and pour down the windows. That night our bedroom had been dark and humid, like a cave in the middle of a jungle. We used only the silk sheets and threw the pillows on the floor. We did not cover our bodies with anything but each other.

I still fantasized about that night. I still savored the memories of how I'd so boldly conquered my shyness. How Esme's fingers had trembled ceaselessly over those parts of my body that I had not even acknowledged before. How we had moved slowly and deliberately, and how patient we were with one another as we learned to touch, as we discovered the incredible capabilities of our fingers, as we memorized the beautiful pieces of our anatomy. And the sounds we'd made... The way our limbs tangled, the friction between our bodies so fierce we could start a fire. Slick skin sliding against skin, one pair of lips clinging to another... Our voices melting together, weeping, uttering things we would never dream of uttering again, deep and guttural, feverish and desperate...the slow, wet, heartbeat-like sound of me thrusting inside her... the way I made her come apart, how she shrieked and gasped beneath me, thrashing like a thief in the arms of the constable.

I had a thrilling revelation on that night, a second wind of sorts. As I sculpted my wife's naked body with my own two hands, my thoughts and feelings about pleasure completely changed. I learned things about a woman's body which, even with all my medical history, I had never known before. I allowed Esme to guide my fingers over my own body, and I felt more alive than I'd ever felt before. Then I took her hands and made her touch herself in ways she'd never touched herself before, and the memory of what that felt like still made me want to blush. It wasn't that our lovemaking had been unsatisfactory since that time, but I felt that I'd lost that sense of discovery and newness by playing it safe.

I decided that I wanted another night like that. I wanted to reenact the secrets and pleasures we'd uncovered that evening, alone in our bedroom, with only our hands to communicate. I wanted to write a constitution of erotic promises designed only for Esme, and I wanted to be bold enough to read them out loud to her as I demonstrated every one.

My body was already on fire just thinking of it. I absently undid the buttons of my collar as I stretched my neck over the back of my chair. My breathing was probably so heavy that Esme could hear it in the next room. I tried to calm myself with a silent prayer for control, but before I could mouth _amen, _I could hear Esme's footsteps in the hall.

In one lightning-fast motion, I rebuttoned the cuffs of my sleeves to hide the smeared ink on my wrists and slammed my journal back into its drawer just before the door to my study swung open.

Her eyes immediately dropped to my open collar. I swore I could see a suspicious half-smile on her lips. "What were you doing?"

"Waiting for you," I said breathlessly.

She smiled fully as she entered the room and shut the door behind her. "You sure you weren't just writing in your journal?"

I stood up and casually reorganized some things on my desk, ignoring her question. "Did you finish your little project?"

She sighed. "Not completely. I was too eager to come and see you."

I tried not to grin. "Oh?"

"I thought we could read some books together," she said pleasantly.

The beast inside of me yawned.

"We've already read them all," I blurted without thinking.

She narrowed her eyes at me before heading over to the shelf. "I'm sure there's at least a few we haven't read yet."

I chuckled as she scanned a row of titles with her finger. "Not in this house."

Suddenly she turned and ran up to me, her eyes filled with that certain eccentric brightness they caught whenever she had a good idea.

"Why don't we go to the library together?" she suggested, her hands clasped together in excitement.

My eyebrows rose as I stared at the clock. "It's nearly eleven at night, darling. The library's closed."

She brushed me off with a wave of her hand. "Not tonight. Tomorrow, silly. On your day off."

I shrugged noncommittally. "Maybe if it rains we can go."

"Good." She smiled and glanced randomly at the disorganized state of my desk, a strange gleam in her eyes. "Then again, you could use your day off to tidy up a bit."

I moved to stand protectively beside my desk, knocking one hand against the sturdy wooden surface. "I prefer to keep things just like this."

Even if she truly did disapprove, she couldn't hide the fondness in her eyes as she looked at me. "Cluttered chaos?"

I nodded proudly. "It suits me, don't you think?"

She stared at me for a long moment of silence, her expression just the same. "I love being married to you," she said softly.

I glowed at her unexpected remark. "Likewise," I whispered as I bent down to kiss her. Her chin trembled in my hand as I brushed my lips over hers, once, twice. But in spite of my efforts to be romantic, Esme pulled gently away, shivering more.

"Light a fire, Carlisle."

I had to conceal a grin at the tone of her voice. Only Esme could manage to be both sweet and demanding at once. She knew she could convince me to do anything, especially now that she was my wife. Before we were married, Esme never would have dreamed about ordering me about so boldly. But now when she gave me mundane and domestic chores to complete, a part of me found it irresistible. Though I might have grown bored with polishing antiques, lighting a fire was something I genuinely enjoyed, and Esme knew this.

I gave her hand a gentle squeeze before obediently heading to the fireplace. I could feel her eyes on me as I knelt down and selected five small logs from the tin. I heard her footsteps pace the burgundy carpet behind me as she watched me arrange the logs into a neat pile on the grate. When I was through, I struck a match and tossed it eagerly into the ashes.

Sensing the opportunity I had been given to create a more romantic atmosphere, I took further advantage of Esme's watchful stare by lingering beside the hearth and poking around with the fireplace tools. There was certainly more heat coming from her stare than from the growing flames in the fireplace.

"Do you think it will always be this way?" she asked out of nowhere, her voice quiet.

"Thirty-six degrees at the beginning of September?" I shrugged as I turned over another log between the grate. "I doubt it."

She laughed a little, and that was when I noticed the slightest tension in her voice. I glanced over my shoulder to find her staring wistfully at me from her spot by the sofa. "No... Do you think _we'll _always be this way? Living in a nice house with nice things, near a town with good people? Having Edward under the same roof?"

I was at a loss for how to respond to such a deep, unexpected question. One would think by now I'd be used to Esme's notoriously hard-to-answer questions. She certainly knew how to throw me for a loop. And I had a lifetime still to look forward to.

I brushed my hands off and straightened up, my back turned to the fire as I faced her. "We will, of course, need to move somewhere else someday, Esme. You know that."

She nodded nervously. "Yes, but will things still be the same? Mostly?"

The pleading gleam in her eyes made my chest ache. "I don't know," I answered honestly. "Things may change a lot. We may need to make sacrifices." I sighed and set one hand against the fireplace mantel to support my weight as I stared thoughtfully at her. "Maybe we won't be living in such a nice house in a few years. Maybe the people we encounter won't be so understanding. Maybe Edward..."

I immediately closed my mouth when I saw the quivering worry in her face, and I instead smiled reassuringly. "Maybe Edward will decide to move away for a few years to study at a university," I finished casually.

Esme looked visibly relieved, and the ache in my chest vanished, knowing that I'd rescued the conversation from dangerous territory. "Maybe," she agreed with a reluctant half-smile. "Although I selfishly hope he'll stay with us always."

Our eyes met in warm understanding. "So do I," I added gently. "But no matter what happens, I do believe our happiness will not change."

She looked down, smiling, then suddenly covered a giggle.

I looked down in confusion, curious as to what had amused her. "What?"

"You have soot on your fingers," she said lovingly, moving quickly to my side.

Her tongue darted out to lick the tips of her fingers, and before I knew it she was tugging at my hand. I suppressed a sigh of pleasure as she rubbed her wet fingers into my blackened knuckles with the same endearing determination she'd used while cleaning those rusty antiques earlier.

Distracted as I was by her persistent fingers, it took me a moment to notice that she had unbuttoned the cuffs of my sleeves in the process. Sure enough, she spotted the telltale blue ink stains on the inside of my wrist.

"Aha! You _were _writing while I was in the other room!"

My body reacted with a surge of sweet embarrassment. Her plump red lips opened wide in a slightly evil grin of victory, and in that moment she looked so threatening and so beautiful that my knees almost gave way. I didn't know what to say, what excuse I could possibly offer. I stuttered uselessly as she flounced away from me toward my desk, and my protective instincts kicked in.

I rushed to beat her there, but she had already slipped her hand between mine and the top drawer where I kept my journal hidden. "Were you writing about me tonight?" she asked flirtatiously, with all the childish excitement of a schoolgirl trying to solve the mystery of her secret admirer. My journal was now tucked between both her hands.

"If I was, is that any of your business?"

"I think so," she said as she began circling my desk, moving further away from me as she waved my journal around, just out of my reach.

"Give it—"

"Just one page!"

"Esme!"

She gave a coy giggle and narrowly ducked under my arm as I went to grab her. She went flitting across the room to the fireplace and my heart suddenly strained with the irrational fear that she might accidentally drop my journal into the flames.

"There must be something _very _interesting written in here if you're so determined to hide it from me..."

I seized after her, grappling fruitlessly for the book while she tauntingly strummed the pages with her fingers. I wasn't certain if she was only kidding around or if she really was liable to peek if given the chance.

"Not terribly interesting at all," I lied self-consciously. "Just things I prefer to keep to myself. Now if you don't mind." I made to snatch it away from her waving hand, and this time I finally succeeded. She yelped in surprise as I stole the book from her and very gently slapped her hip with it as punishment for her behavior. She teased me back by rubbing the spot I'd hit with a feigned whimper of pain. I quickly hid the book behind my back and leaned up against the wall before she could steal it again.

"You won't even let me read just one page?" she pleaded craftily, manipulating me with a flutter of her eyelashes. "Now that I'm your wife?"

I tried my best to stay strong even as I felt my resolve weaken by way of her beguiling beauty. "You don't need to read my journal, Esme. You already know me."

"Then what are you hiding?" She looked intensely curious, and suddenly the room felt quieter than it should have. I could sense our conversation becoming more serious, and I had very ambivalent feelings about the nature of Esme's questions.

"I'm not hiding anything, darling," I said carefully. "It's just that there are still some secrets I've not yet shared with you." I slowly took my journal out from behind my back and held it in front of me, running my palm over its cover. "But I do want to share them with you someday. I just want to do it in my own time. When I feel ready."

As soon as I looked up at her, our gazes locked.

"Will you tell me one secret tonight?" she pleaded, her voice hushed. The fire crackled enthusiastically at her suggestion, and my heart squirmed nervously.

_One secret..._

One secret in particular jumped to the front of my mind. Ironically, it was also the one secret I'd been trying to work up to revealing all evening long. And somehow Esme was the sole reason we kept deftly avoiding the subject.

I gulped and rubbed the cover of my journal faithfully, assuring myself that the secret in question was still safely tucked away...for now. Esme tilted her head to the side and studied me cryptically, a titillating expression of hunger on her lovely face.

I was going to cave no matter how hard I resisted. Seeing no other resolution, I sighed. "Alright," I agreed in a hesitant whisper. "One secret." My fingers trembled as I struggled not to drop my journal on the floor.

Esme's eyes widened with amber excitement as she situated herself comfortably on the edge of my desk, her bare legs swinging girlishly over the carpet. Bless her sweet soul, she had no idea how intimate, how dark and deep this secret actually was. Her innocence shone brightly to me right then, and I was almost tempted to take back my offer. But she looked so eager...so trusting and so...so loving. I wondered how she would take it if I told her my secret. How would she react?

_It's hardly a terrible secret, Carlisle, _My conscience tried to convince me. I was at constant war with myself over questions of what was moral, what was not. I could be a fast learner with many things, but there were certain aspects of marriage that still had me running in circles with my inner voice. A little over a month of being married was not enough time to answer all of my questions, but I still felt there was so much left to be discovered. To make things even more daunting, every day brought a new question to be answered, all of which I had penned in my journal. Those questions were the main reason I did not want Esme to see what I'd written on those pages. Questions about what kinds of things she expected from me, questions of what was appropriate territory to explore, sexually.

I had mixed feelings about what she would think of those questions. Sometimes when I thought of sharing them out loud, I imagined she would react with understanding and compassion. But other times I was convinced that she would cower away in revulsion.

I suppose what it all came down to was this. Being brave. Opening my heart for her, and trusting her to accept me for my true wonders and desires.

"Just one secret," I repeated as I stalked towards her, so low that I could barely hear the words I'd uttered. Esme nodded from her perch on my desk, looking so feminine and vulnerable, with her pink dress and her bare legs and her soft, open lips.

Her arms slid around my waist as I came to stand in front of her, and her chin rested against my chest, her head tilted back so she could look expectantly up at me. I ran my hands through her silky hair and bent down to kiss her forehead, then her nose, then her lips.

"Carlisle...what are you doing?" There was a hint of reluctant protest in her voice as I ghosted my lips across hers.

"Showing you my secret," I responded.

"But how is this—"

"Shh..." I murmured as I pressed my body against hers, parting her legs so I could stand between them. "Just trust me."

My fingers played with the loose knot on her dress while I left a trail of kisses down the side of her face. I felt her breathing change as she began to respond, tentatively kissing my jaw and rubbing her hands across my back.

I moved my hands gently down her belly, and her dress slid back to the tops of her thighs, revealing more soft bare skin.

The thrill of what we were doing - more specifically, _where _we were doing it - only heightened my desire. There were no sheets, no curtains, no pillows. No bed. If Esme was going to lay down anywhere it would have to be on a hard surface. The very surface where I wrote in my journal and sorted my mail and read over my patients' files and made telephone calls and studied the Bible.

A possessive growl rumbled in my chest, and my hands ventured beneath the hem of her dress, feeling for that warm, slick spot in her lap. With her encouragement, I slowly slipped my fingers inside her drawers. She gasped and leaned back to give me more room, her breasts heaving under the clinging pink fabric of her dress.

My fingers, now heated by her desire, swirled deeper and deeper while she moaned sensual notes of approval. She did not question my intentions as I'd expected. Instead she moved along with my every touch, letting me manipulate her aching flesh, complete trust shining in her eyes as she gripped my shirt and parted her legs.

I curved my fingers deep inside of her and watched with reverent intensity as she shuddered and clung to my arms. Her sudden movement caused her dress to droop further down her shoulders - enough that her full, round breasts were barely covered by the flimsy fabric. I felt the familiar fire of an oncoming erection racing through my groin. I manfully set my control aside and accepted the ache. I had brought it upon myself, yet I did not regret it.

My need for intimacy surged through my body like a warm front before a storm. I closed my eyes, and my lips found her cheek. She sighed happily as I kissed her, her toes tickling the backs of my thighs as she wrapped her legs loosely around me and tilted her hips forward. Beneath her dress, my fingers played contentedly against her sensitive flesh.

I kissed her everywhere but her lips, determined to keep her wanting more. After a long healthy minute of teasing, I whispered huskily against her throat, "Remember that night?"

I could sense her uncertainty in the way she held me, the disoriented furrow in her eyebrows as she leaned back and studied me through her hooded gaze.

"There were... So. Many. Nights... Carlisle..." she stuttered breathlessly as I moved my fingers slowly in and out of her, her eyelids fluttering uncontrollably.

I realigned our faces so that my mouth was hovering over hers. "The night it rained," I whispered, not so concerned with specificity. "The night we touched each other..."

As if reawakened by the memory, her hands dug deep into my biceps and she clenched desperately around my fingers. "Ohhh..." she moaned again, I supposed more at my touch than at any recollection.

As much as it pained me to do it, I slowly withdrew my fingers from her, needing her attention on my words.

"I want that again," I declared wistfully as I caressed her cheek with my damp fingertips. "I want us to do something we've never done before."

Esme's eyes bloomed with forbidden curiosity. "Like what?" she whispered, lovingly scandalized.

"I want to make love to you...right here." I placed my arms on either side of her and let my hands slide to each end of the desk. "On my desk."

A subtle shiver swept through her body, and I immediately noticed her nipples - two protruding buds straining against that clinging pink dress. Unable to stop myself, I bent down and kissed her full on the mouth. She threw her arms up around my back and pulled me down on top of her, and in one sweep, nearly all of the clutter was cleared from my desk.

I supposed that took care of the cleaning for tomorrow.

Trying to restrain myself was a bit more difficult than I expected it would be. Esme's hands were as passionate as the rest of her, and when she held me, she did so very intensely. I tried to ignore the enticing force of her fingers digging into my back as I kissed her with persistent patience. Though she seemed as willing as I was to continue foreplay here, I did not want to risk going too far too fast, or else she might change her mind.

I sensed some hesitancy in the way she was undoing the buttons on my shirt, and so I brought my hands over hers to guide her through the process. I was quietly thrilled when my shirt dropped off my body and I stood bare-chested against her. As much as I wanted that pretty pink dress off Esme's body, I made sure to savor the moment I rid her of it. My curious fingers trailed across the bust line of her dress, tracing the fabric over the swell of each breast. When I reached her shoulders I slipped my fingers underneath and tugged the dress down slowly until her breasts bobbed free. Instinct urged my palms to cover her bare breasts, as if I must protect them from my own eyes. Esme's chest was heaving with deep, measured breaths, her eyes frantically roaming my face with wonder and demure lust. It baffled me how naturally shy we still were with each other when we deviated from our usual course of events in lovemaking. We still had so much to learn and try together. My mind raced when I thought of all the possibilities that lay ahead of us, let alone on this night.

I stared at her with worshipful eyes as my fingers swirled affectionately over her nipples. She moaned and arched her back, her hands moving from my shoulders to my neck and tugging my hair. While she was distracted I carefully moved one hand to pull her dress the rest of the way down. It slid past her ankles and dropped to the floor, covering my feet. I picked at the little ribbons on her drawers until they came undone and I tossed them on the ground. Then I stood back to take in the fantastic sight before me.

Esme. Completely nude. On my desk. In my study.

It was something straight out of my deepest fantasies, a vision that had plagued my heart and untangled my chastity long before we were married. Her skin glowed like freshly fallen snow against the dark wood grain of the desk, and her limbs sprawled out, slender and soft, waiting to embrace me. Her coy eyes shimmered mysteriously in the faint firelight as she stared up at me, like some formidable goddess with ulterior intentions.

"Are you sure about this, Carlisle?" she asked me, her voice breathy.

I nodded weakly, transfixed by her charms. "Oh, yes."

She reached up for me again, sliding up my bare arms and back down to the waist of my trousers. Her palm pressed against my bulging erection with surprising confidence, and my entire body shuddered with pleasure. With torturing slowness, she began to unbutton my pants.

Unable to speak, I let her torture me to her heart's content. My hands curved around her bottom, drawing her closer to me as I settled my chin on the top of her head and stared out the window behind us. Our reflection was indecently gorgeous; Esme's hair cascading down her naked back, my hands cupping her bottom. The unexpected image brought me closer to the brink of losing control. At the same moment, my pants dropped to the ground, and Esme giggled softly against my chest. I was sure she'd noticed the effect.

I closed my eyes and let her press devious little kisses to all the most sensitive spots on my stomach, her long curls tickling my skin as she worked her way closer to my waist. My breath caught in my throat when her tongue gently flicked my bellybutton, and she giggled again - in an infuriating, secretive way. She was enjoying torturing me far too much. I would have my revenge soon enough.

I weaved my fingers through her silky hair, encouraging her to look up at me. Eventually she did, her cheeks rosy and her eyes full of love and mischief. I bowed down and kissed her adoringly, thrusting my tongue between her lips as a delicate threat. Lost in a stream of persistent kisses, I slowly pressed against her until she was lying flat on her back, her legs dangling off the edge of the desk. I raised my body above her, feeling wonderfully dominant as she blinked up at me, her long hair fanned out like a dark halo around her head.

I was so lost in her beauty that I barely noticed her fingers crawling down the plane of my stomach again. She smiled knowingly when her touch made me groan, and I braced my hands on the desk for support. Her fingers danced around me, tracing inappropriate calligraphy up and down my straining length. Inebriated as I was by my mounting pleasure, I somehow managed to retaliate. My own fingers burrowed boldly into her supple pink flesh, delighted by the inviting sting of her venom on my skin. Her spicy scent sweetened the rough, smoky traces of fire filling the room, and the deeper I touched her, the stronger her scent became.

Her hand tightened around me at the same time her inner muscles clenched around my fingers, and I nearly dropped to my knees from the overwhelming sensation. The mere sight of both our hands tucked between each other's thighs while we struggled to keep from collapsing into climax was enough to drive me over the edge. I had very little time left if I wanted to give her the pleasure she deserved, and she seemed to realize this.

"It's enough, Carlisle." Her sigh was the sweetest warning I could ever hear. "I need you inside me," she half-whispered, tugging me desperately with her warm hand.

My breaths grew ragged as I withdrew my trembling fingers from her lap and positioned myself between her open thighs. I nudged her until just my tip was inside of her, and she gripped my waist with her hands, tossing her head back in pleasure. Winding my arms around the small of her back, I embraced her tightly, ensuring that she felt every inch of my throbbing need.

She stayed limp in my arms as I lovingly adjusted her pliant little body to receive the rest of my ache. Slow ripples of a dream-like fever surged through my mind and trickled down my belly to that wonderful point just shy of where our flesh merged. I kept our bodies still with my arms, holding my wife lovingly beneath me as I watched her eyes communicate a thousand things, all of which magnified the love I felt for her in return.

She trembled and threw her arms about my shoulders as I sat her upright, moving slowly and deliberately within her. "Oh, my angel..."

My heart was battered by her loving sighs; my soul was lit with the fire in her receptive gaze.

"This is what I wrote about in my journal," I admitted to her, my voice shaking, low and breathless but no longer ashamed. "Now you know."

I hummed softly against her with the building pressure while she mumbled incoherently sensual nonsense against my ear, nonsense made only for me.

I tucked myself deeply inside of her and stilled for a few moments, soaking in her burning silk. There I hardened impossibly until she gasped, and I had to move... faster and firmer yet until she was positively melting around me. I caressed her from the inside with each stroke, every move I made to serve her pleasure as well as my own. My hands tangled in her soft hair as I held her head upright, bestowing sensual kisses on every feature of her face.

I slipped in further where I could feel the tiniest of quivers deep inside her, the gentle pulsing in her slick flesh; every flutter, every clench. Esme was indescribably beautiful in the throes of her climax – I could see it approaching long before it came - I knew her so well, yet she still remained a mystery to me in so many ways. The pleasure seized her, softly at first, so her eyes would slip shut, and her lips would fall apart. Then I would need to provoke the softness – with a touch of my finger or a whispered word – and my responsibility it was, always, to complete her pleasure.

She sighed my name repeatedly, and every time was like an explosive hot spell in the depths of my soul – the notion that this flailing, breathless, beautiful mess was _my_ fault. I waited patiently for my wife to descend from ecstasy, stroking her cheek with the backs of my fingers fondly, and kissing her fluttering eyelids. I shared with her silent secrets through every lazy touch of my lips, begging her without words to hold me tighter.

Her shudders turned to trembles, and the trembles turned to stillness, and I watched over her as she passed into the slumber of contentment that followed. But there was pleasure yet to be had for me.

When she was slack against me, I forced our hips closer together, nuzzling my cheek against hers as the burn of animal instinct wrestled passionately against my control. I gently dipped her beneath me and began to thrust fervently into her once again.

With each silky tug, Esme beckoned me further, her panting growing delirious as she struggled to consume me. Her hands squeezed my shoulders mercilessly as I pounded against her, threatening the integrity of the desk with each thrust. The wood groaned and cracked beneath my force, all of my books scattered across the ground, and an inkwell cracked and spilled everywhere, staining the wood and dripping onto the dark red carpet.

I soon reached that deliciously helpless point of no return, my pace quickening madly without thought or reason. I could hear the sounds I was making - the hyperventilating greed, the panting excitement, the beastly desperation. All of it became a rush of senselessness until I found what I craved. I released inside her with a new, delectable feeling of power and pride. I managed to open my eyes in the midst of it all, only to find Esme watching me. And with one look from her, I was humbled from my high.

I fell into her - like a man dying of thirst diving into water. And around me her arms came like waves, soothing and welcoming, yet fierce. For a long time I laid in her arms, nearly all of my weight supported by her small body on the remarkably strong desk. I smiled to myself as I fondly stroked the surface of the solid antique wood, admiring its sturdiness to serve our purpose.

After a little while Esme broke the silence with an awe-filled whisper. "That was..."

"I know," I sighed happily as I lifted myself up to look down at her.

Her eyes were still lusty with emotion, and the ends of her hair were soaking black from where the ink had spilled. I grinned but didn't say anything to her. She was still more beautiful than Aphrodite.

She cocked her head at my expression, looking more intrigued than ever. "You really wrote about this in your journal?"

I lowered my voice and nuzzled her neck. "Not _only _this."

A shiver of excitement spread from her body to mine. "And you're still not going to let me read it?" she whimpered in disbelief.

I shook my head with a loving smirk. "You're just going to have to let me show you instead."

* * *

**Thank you to all my wonderful readers! To everyone who asks - yes, I am definitely still writing!**


	14. Violet

_After deriving much inspiration from several readers' suggestions, I've decided to write a more detailed account Carlisle and Esme's second night as a married couple. This one-shot is meant to directly follow the events in Chapter 2: White, and is also referenced by Carlisle in Chapter 13: Burgundy._

* * *

**Inspired by Violet**

**Medium: Heat in the Darkness**

* * *

_July 1922_

_~Esme_

I had no preconceived ideas about what marriage to Carlisle would be like.

Every time I'd tried to imagine it before, I'd always come out blank. Even when there were times I thought I could see it, my mind would only offer me bits and pieces, half-formed and unsatisfactory. Now that my dream had become a reality, every moment I spent with him proved me wrong.

Our first night together as lovers had been indescribable. The way we fit together, both spiritually and physically, left no doubt in my mind that we had been made for each other. It seemed impossible now that we had ever spent so much of our lives apart, not even knowing the other existed. Having come from another century entirely, Carlisle may as well have been coming to me from another dimension. It was as if time and space and reality had all been bent and altered for us to meet and become one.

I foresaw something even greater for us in our future, but when I thought so far ahead I made myself dizzy. "_Best to live in the moment_," my husband would say. And I still got giddy at the mere thought of calling him my husband, even after we'd spent the entire morning making love until noon and beyond. We wouldn't have stopped at all if it weren't for Carlisle's devotion to the hospital. After the telephone rang five times and went unanswered, it became necessary that he leave me for a short while to see his patients.

"Three hours," he promised me before leaving the house. "I'll be home before you notice I'm gone."

I didn't know whether to laugh or sob as I saw him to the door. We'd done this countless times before, but out of all the times we said goodbye to each other, this was the only time where we had done it as a married couple.

It was so much more painful now.

"Three hours," I reminded him, my hands tight around his neck in a forceful kiss. I tried to hold onto him for as long as I could, regretful that we could not reserve time for a honeymoon like other couples could.

"Do not leave the house, Esme," he made me promise, his eyes dangerous. I was startled by the intensity of his command. I could see the protective gleam in his gaze, his unvoiced urge to tie me up in the wine cellar so I had no choice but to stay put.

"I won't," I assured him with another flurry of kisses around his neck. "You can trust me."

We kissed seven more times before he finally forced himself to leave. Three times on each cheek, twice on the jaw, and twice mouth to mouth. And our last kiss went on and on – whenever one of us tried to pull away, the other would refuse to let go. I found myself standing in the yard, halfway to the edge of the street with Carlisle's arms wrapped fiercely around me. He put all of his strength and passion into that final kiss, with lips firm and defiant and deep. And he kept kissing and kissing and kissing me, all the while knowing that I would never stop him. And so he had to be the one to stop himself, too suddenly, tearing himself away from me with a flustered fire raging in his eyes.

"Three hours," were the last two words he uttered to me, before he gathered up both my hands and left one last excessive kiss on my knuckles.

**-}0{-**

I spent those three unbearable hours reading poetry by the bedroom window. It seemed like something Carlisle would do. We'd been married for only twenty-four hours and already his habits were rubbing off on me. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Outside the window a flight of swans soared overhead, dazzling against the azure sky, the whirr of their wings as tuned as music. They were heading east, away from the beastly gray clouds that were pouring in from the west. Those clouds had allowed Carlisle to leave the house for a time, but at this late hour they were returning with a vengeance, ready to dominate the rest of the evening with darkness and rain.

I tucked my hair into a knot and pinned it up, freeing the back of my neck. It seemed ironic that as the sky grew dimmer, the air grew hotter. Storms were strange that way, I recalled. In fact I had first met Carlisle on an evening not unlike this one.

I sighed at the beloved memory, a memory that had recently been intensified by my husband's romantic recitation. Earlier that day Carlisle had recounted the entirety of our first meeting to the finest detail so that I could appreciate a memory as vivid as his own. It never ceased to amaze me when I thought back to that time over a decade ago, when we were just a doctor and a patient. I was a wistful teenage farm girl, and Carlisle had been my unattainable angel – a golden-eyed stranger, a captivating mystery with a velvet voice and gentle hands. I'd pined after him for years with an incurable ache in my heart, and now that very same man had shared his bed with me, had unleashed upon me his innermost longings and wildest desires. He loved me, not as his patient, not as an innocent farm girl, but as a woman. A woman who needed to be saved, and who would spend eternity showing her savior her appreciation. A woman who was his equal in likeness of heart and spirit and passion.

We knew each other so well, yet we still had so much to learn about each other.

I was restless when it came to developing my relationship with Carlisle. I didn't want to wait another three years to be able to travel the world with him. I didn't want to wait another three months to experience Christmas with him as his wife. I didn't want to wait another three weeks to watch the summer melt into autumn with him by my side. I didn't want to wait another three days to watch him hunt in the forest again. And I certainly didn't want to wait another three hours for him to come home to me tonight.

Thankfully, Carlisle was a man of his word.

I heard the crunch of car tires on the gravel at the same time a rumble of thunder shook the house. My heart jumped to life as I waited by the window, listening for his footsteps as he came into the house and up the stairs. I leapt out of my chair the second his soft tenor touched my ears, and I flung myself against his body, already wet with need.

We kissed hungrily for three long minutes in the middle of the bedroom, making up for lost time. Our brief absence had only seemed to increase our desire. I could feel Carlisle's entire body throbbing as he held me. The faint scents of humans still clung to his clothes, making him even more irresistible. All I could think about was how to lure him back into bed again. As it turned out, I would not have to do much luring.

"Lie down?" he whispered against my trembling lips, more a question than a suggestion. As if he thought I would refuse.

I lifted my skirt slightly as I obediently lowered myself to the edge of the mattress behind me. I reclined half-way, propping myself up on my elbows to watch as he sauntered over to the windows. He made his way confidently through the darkness, comfortable and familiar with our room. "What were you doing while I was gone?" he asked quietly as he slowly closed the curtains.

My chest tightened in anticipation, so tight I could barely breathe enough to answer him. "Reading," I responded weakly, rubbing my ankles together. "Thinking of you."

He sighed contentedly as he began to unbutton his shirt, still facing the window. "I thought of you, too."

My body flashed with wanton heat, so ready for him, just from his simple confession and the sound of crinkling cotton as he undressed himself for me. I swallowed hard as he shrugged his shirt off his shoulders, watching as his bare back blossomed forth. Glorious waves of flinching muscles captured my eyes, even as his silhouette darkened in the stormy light of the curtained window. I heard the musical clink of his belt hitting the table seconds later, and soon after the heavy swish of his trousers falling to the carpet. I was unable to suppress the little moan of appreciation that escaped my throat, and I could tell from the proud posture of his strapping silhouette that he had clearly heard me.

Even though he still faced away from me, he was inconsolably beautiful. He resembled some dark, dreamy angel with those pale, lullaby blue curtains floating peacefully around his nude body, teasing his skin. The night released another satisfied purr of thunder, penetrating the thick walls and rattling the glass as I waited with bated breath for him to turn around.

The bedroom was so dark I strained to see him clearly, even with my enhanced vision. He appeared to be distracted by something on the table beside him, and when I leaned forward enough I could see that he was flipping through the pages of the poetry book I'd been reading in his absence.

If I listened carefully, I could just barely hear him reciting aloud the poem I had bookmarked.

_I feed a flame within, which so torments me_

_That it both pains my heart, and yet contains me._

The fragile tone of his voice was interrupted by the startling shred of a page being torn out of the book. I raised my body up a little higher in concern, wondering what on earth he was doing over there in the dark.

When he at last turned around to face me, I saw that he now used the delicate page to cover his genitals, holding it like a fig leaf to preserve his modesty.

Even the breath he took sounded shy as he recited the second two lines of the poem in his timid accent:

_'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,_

_That I had rather die than once remove it._

His voice was tauntingly soft in the darkness, and the tiniest hint of a smile pulled on his lips as he stared at me from across the room. I wanted to leap into him and kiss him senseless, but I stayed still where I was, trusting and silent, letting him set his own intriguing pace for both of us.

"I've had this book for twenty-seven years," he said, placing one palm to cover the book on the table behind him.

Still fiddling with the hem of my skirt, I sent him a shaky half-smile. "Then I guess it's no surprise you were able to rip that page out so easily."

I gestured to the page he held in his hand, and his eyes were drawn back down to it. He tucked his lip beneath his teeth before he looked back up at me, his eyes conveying an intriguing range of emotions.

"That poem was my favorite one," I said accusingly, betrayed by my quivering voice. I stared numbly at the torn page he still dangled in front of his lap. "Why did you do that?"

He stepped forward silently, away from the window, and the movement brought him close enough to make me catch my breath, making me far too aware of the imposing strength of his body. "So you can put it in your sketchbook for inspiration," he said. His deep voice held traces of adoring innocence, but his eyes gave away the true intentions of his soul. His fingers were trembling slightly as he extended his hand toward me, offering me the page – and conveniently unveiling his glorious erection.

I still was not brave enough to stare, and Carlisle knew this. Something about studying this part of him for more than a flashing second made me feel flushed and embarrassed. And although of the two of us, he was the only one whose arousal was physically on display at the moment, I had to acknowledge that mine was not so subtle either.

It surprised me that despite how dark it was, Carlisle's physique seemed more defined than ever to me. Even wrapped in silky black shadows, his flesh seemed to glow with warmth and want. His masculinity became a gorgeous monument, aching, reaching for my hand as I shyly accepted the thin page of poetry from him.

I folded the page into thirds and held it against my breast appreciatively, never taking my eyes off his face because I was still too frightened to look anywhere else.

That was when the rain began to pour.

And I thought, as I stared into my husband's eyes, that he had somehow specifically designed this moment to happen exactly this way. I believed that he had summoned the rain at that precise second to douse our atmosphere with even more intensity. It was as if he had controlled it with just that sly, knowing look in his gaze – but it was masked by an intolerable innocence that only Carlisle could generate.

He had already shown me his true colors last night. I knew what kind of lover he was; I knew now just how disturbingly sensual Doctor Cullen could be. I had experienced my first real taste of pleasure in this bed, and I owed it all to him. I had never felt so intimately aware of my sexuality before, never so acutely aware of my sheer femininity. He had worshiped me until every inch of my body stung from his attentions, and I felt so much like a woman that it hurt.

But in spite of all that I had already discovered, I was still shaking like a leaf at the thought of letting him love me again the way he did last night.

Because last night was a dream. It was surreal. Even this morning, which now seemed so long ago, felt like a part of that dream. Tonight felt more solid and inescapable, more like reality. We knew at least a little of what to expect from the other, but that was what made everything more tense. We had each tasted the tip of the iceberg, but we had yet to swallow it.

Love was no longer a complete and utter mystery to us. We had opened the doors to that world just enough to meander through its pleasure gardens. Now, if we so desired, we could lose ourselves in them.

As I stared into my husband's rapidly darkening eyes, it hit me, as strong as the scent of a fresh drop of blood.

We were going to do this again.

We could repeat last night over and over, as much as we pleased, every night for the rest of our lives. And it would never be the same. We would be free to make new discoveries, and uncover more secrets, and whisper more forbidden words, and touch more skin...

A hot shiver swept through my middle as my eyes momentarily dropped to Carlisle's hard white thighs. The newness of his body was still ripe in my heart. As intimately as I thought I knew him, he was still a mystery to me in so many ways. I wondered if he felt the same way about me.

I lay the poetry page on the bed beside me as my hands went up to tentatively unbutton my blouse.

"Let me," Carlisle's voice came out of the darkness, almost pleading.

I closed my eyes as his warm fingers rested on my shoulders then slid down to pluck my buttons in one fluid sweep. He slipped my sleeves down my arms slowly, savoring the sound of the silky fabric as it rubbed against my skin. Our senses were heightened by the darkness; our exchange of breath echoed between us, blooming with intensity. Carlisle grasped my now bare shoulders and helped me to stand up. I could not pretend to ignore the way his erection brushed the front of my skirt. I barely had time to gasp before that piece of clothing had disappeared somewhere, stolen swiftly by my husband's stealthy hands.

It was immensely erotic, standing inches away from him in the pitch black room. Both of us, warm, naked, breathless. Before I knew it I was pressed up against him – my arms around his neck, my hands tugging his hair. His arms around my back, his hands cupping my bottom. Our lips melding in perfect harmony. Our pelvises parallel, hiding nothing.

The rain poured incessantly outside, making strange drum-like rhythms against shingles, glass, stone and bricks. I could feel the friction between our bodies building rapidly. The heat in our bedroom was stifling, intolerable by human standards, but divine to us. No breath I took seemed deep enough, and I soon felt like I was drowning – in heat, in skin, in our sweet spicy scent of mutual arousal. Our lips were locked, our tongues caught in a slick, dueling dance. I was entranced by the sensations that had ensnared my body from all over, pulling me into a deep, desperate union with him.

His skin was so fragrant when I was this close to him – like a forest in winter, with echoes of sweet candle smoke still clinging to his hair. But by now I knew, quite thoroughly, what he smelled like. Just him. Nothing else on earth matched it, and I thought I used to know what his scent was. But now I knew it more intimately than I ever thought possible – every note and dimension of it, backwards and forwards. I could have tracked him from hundreds of miles away, I was sure, just by following his scent. And now I knew it was more than just incense and old books and costmary leaves. He smelled like goodness and honesty and purity. He smelled like the end of winter, and the essence of worship. He smelled the way an ocean breeze should smell in a fairytale. Like comfort and peace and home and affection.

I whined in protest when he parted our lips, but was silenced as he began to kiss a feverish path down my neck. My fingers shook, tangled in his thick blond curls as his head dipped lower. His breath was warmer than the sun, and I felt my knees give way at the sweet suckling sounds he made with his lips wrapped around my nipple.

I collapsed into the bed, pulling him down along with me. We nestled among the thick layers of quilts and pillows, so hot it felt as if the sun had been beating down on them all day long. Between the shadows of the canopy curtains, I was nearly blind, and every detail of his body was that much more magnified. He was heavy, so much heavier than he'd felt last night – and hot. Like the core of a flame. The hairs on his legs teased my skin as he moved over me, reminding me of the way tall grass felt while walking bare-legged through a meadow. My body felt flushed and alive, so much like a human again. I could feel the sensual pulse of venom rushing through my veins, burning in my belly, stinging in my lap.

What was he thinking just now? I wondered. Would he want roughness or gentleness? Fast or slow?

The excitement was very much the same as last night, but the experience of it all was so drastically different and new. There was no moon, so gentle breeze drifting in through our windows, no flickering candlelight. Instead there was darkness, sweet shadows, thick silence, and air so moist it felt like we were swimming.

I could see nothing but vague shapes and muted colors when I tried to open my eyes. Until Carlisle came up for his air, and the faintest stream of smoky light illuminated his rising chest above me. My breath caught at the beautiful sight, the way those deep violet shadows caressed and swallowed his snow-white skin with every elegant motion.

He was exquisite, moving like a man made of water and imagination, his limbs stretching, his muscles rippling. He had never before looked so graceful, so assured, so strong. His body was like a stunning piece of art that had taken on a life of its own. I was reminded of the frescos that flowed across the walls of ancient Roman temples in Italy. I could see Carlisle's body as a part of one of those paintings, rolling off the stone and taking full shape in front of my very eyes. He was a man produced for the sole purpose of pleasing a woman's darkest fantasies, from his piercing eyes to his powerful legs.

The falling rain reflected off the walls behind him, sparkling and undulating like an underwater dream. In the impenetrable darkness, I could just barely see his face. He smiled slowly, and those notorious dimples in his sturdy cheeks made my heart turn over. Apparently it was enough to make my head turn over as well.

It was not uncommon for me to quickly look away whenever Carlisle smiled at me so directly. I wondered if I would ever outgrow that habit. As it was, he didn't seem to mind.

I sighed when I felt his nose touch my cheek. "It's been so long since I've felt this much heat," he whispered, so low I could barely hear. If he hadn't said it right into my ear, I might have assumed he didn't want me to hear what he was saying. "Am I a victim of the calenture?"

I gave him a curious look. "What is 'calenture?'''

"Fever. Deliriousness." He raised his head and explained in a hushed voice, "In my time, we called it calenture when unprepared sailors ventured into the tropics, and the heat was so strong it caused them to see things and feel things that weren't really there."

I came to the forceful realization, while he caressed my throat with his fingers and whispered into my hair, that Carlisle could have made absolutely anything sound romantic.

"Mmmm. And what makes you think you have it right now?" I asked him.

"The heat. In this room," he murmured secretively, his lips brushing my chin. "It's nearly unbearable."

"I know," I whispered back, shifting beneath his body and the downy comforter. "It feels so good." I closed my eyes again, enjoying the feel of his fingers roaming the length of my collarbone. His touch was feather-light and pensive; he must have been deep in thought about something. I knew it would only be so long before he shared what was on his mind.

I waited in anticipation until he finally drew breath to speak. "We don't need these quilts," he said, his voice raw and husky.

My eyes snapped open. "What?"

"All of these quilts and sheets," he repeated, tugging decidedly at the comforter behind my head. "We don't need them."

With a determined pair of hands, he began to pull all of the sheets out from beneath our bodies and push them onto the floor. I could do nothing but watch wordlessly as he stripped the bed to the very last layer of liquid-thin silk. When he was finished he elbowed the pillows off one by one, each of them falling with a soft _thump_ to the carpet below.

I glanced around us in quiet agony for a moment, perturbed by the thought of having nothing to hide our naked bodies. There was no way left to cover that little bit of skin for self-assurance, no way to cling to our modesty. Shadows were the only things that covered our bodies now – but even they could not conceal much from the eyes of a vampire.

"I think you almost lost something," Carlisle whispered from somewhere in the darkness.

I strained to watch him bend over the corner of the bed, and there he graciously retrieved my folded page of poetry... with his teeth.

He crawled back to me from the other end of the mattress, and when he was hovering over me, he opened his jaw and let the page drop between my breasts.

I pressed my palm into the paper and stared adoringly up at him. "Will you be reciting the rest of it for me?"

He pretended to consider my request. "Hmmm, I may... but I have one condition."

"Yes?"

"Let me touch you," he demanded, the palms of his hands sliding up my waist. "Every inch of you..."

Already I was twisting in anticipation. "Only if you let me touch you."

"Every inch," he made me promise.

"Tonight," I agreed with a whole-hearted kiss. He cradled my head in his hands as our lips moved together, then laid me back down when he was through. Without a pillow to rest on, my head lay flat on the mattress, cushioned by nothing as he loomed over me.

I let my limbs open like the petals of a flower, and he looked down at me like a starving man shown to the banqueting table. His feverish muttering almost made me believe he was a victim of calenture. "I must know you. Every detail of your body. Every part of you must belong to me."

By now his eyes were so dark, they were the color of chocolate.

We touched each other _everywhere_. His hands worked my limbs with passionate pressure, as if he were sculpting me out of clay. Then he was teasing me with the very tips of his fingers, trailing wisps of fire along my legs and into my lap. He treated my feet with inappropriate adoration, lifting each one to rest against his shoulder while his fingers pressed intimate shapes from my ankles to my soles. He kissed my toes and licked my heels, and then he turned his focus to my calves, then my thighs, then my hips...

Every touch, every taste was designed to flatter our mounting pleasure. I'd never seen Carlisle so smitten with the details of my body, so enchanted by every tiny feature I possessed. He was overwhelmed with inquisition, and his eyes were blazing with scandalous curiosity. His hands felt large and powerful when they gripped my hips. They traveled appreciatively up the sides of my waist, and his fingers fanned out across my tummy like eagle's wings, swirling higher and higher until he had claimed my breasts.

I could see the thirst in his intense expression, and I could feel his hunger in the explosive tension of his muscles. Every move he made, and every look he gave me, and every word he uttered – all affected me in new and mysterious ways.

Who was this man? Surely not the same man who'd held a thermometer to my lips and so gently took my pulse in the summer of 1911. Surely not the man who licked his thumb to turn page corners in his Bible every morning. Surely not the man who had lived alone for centuries as celibate as a statue...

He said things that shocked me, things that turned my heart into a firework. He whispered things that should have been sinful, but were somehow not, simply because of the way he whispered them. He made me promises that kept my toes curling for hours in anticipation for when he would fulfill them. He threatened to do things to me that would have made any hot-blooded woman faint. And all the while I could never reconcile him as the pious surgeon I knew him to be before we were married. I was convinced that my bed had been invaded by a wild, strapping, blond stranger who happened to share the same voice as the angel from my childhood.

Any other woman who looked at Carlisle must have shared the same impression of him as I once had. It was only natural to assume he would undress himself slowly and politely, and only expose himself when asked. It seemed obvious that he would be chivalrous and gentle and tender in everything that he did. That he would whisper things about heaven and faith and eternal fidelity while his fingers carefully caressed. That he would wait until the right moment to become one with his wife, and he would do it patiently, cautiously, inch by inch, with his eyes downcast and his voice silent.

What these women would never know was that Carlisle was not just that sort of man. Carlisle broke all of these assumptions seamlessly. He was a beautiful blond angel with a caveman's eyes.

They would never know that he was capable of shredding his clothes to dust in the blink of an eye. Or that he could be as wild and bold and demanding as he was chivalrous and gentle and tender. That he whispered things that would make the angels blush and send him to confession. That his hands could start a fire from the way they touched a woman's body. That he could enter a woman so suddenly and so deeply that her soul would shatter from the force of him.

The range of emotions he showed over the course of the night was fascinating. Wracked by pleasure, weakened by relief. Ferocious. Furious. Hesitant. Entranced. He manipulated me in the same way that he worshiped me. With simultaneous patience and earnestness. With deftness of hand.

He knew exactly where he'd wanted to touch me. I could sense that he had imagined all of this before, perhaps in this exact order of motions. If possible, that notion made everything even more thrilling. He pleasured me with slow purpose, and despite my resistance, I came for him, tipped over my brink by one brush of the heel of his hand. He held me down while my thrashings shook the bed, and my mind blocked out everything but sound and texture: torrential rains, slippery sheets, and the rough lungs of the man who watched me.

Crushed by the sensation, I let him tighten his hold on me, restraining my will to clutch my lap and bind my legs together. He tucked his knee between my thighs, and with his firm intrusion, salvaged my exhausting pleasure, allowing me to ride against him. How beautiful I felt with his eyes on me, displaying everything for which I had no more reason to hide. My body was shaking with love for him; the feeling of a long, sweltering summer confined to that one tiny place inside me – the one place only he had permission to touch.

He laid himself down, perfectly, horizontally aligned with my body, so he could share every shiver that ran through me. His face rested in the bend of my neck and shoulder, breathing harsh and hot. Spent from my pleasure, I had only moments of relaxation to savor before my attention was drawn to his burning hard flesh against my hip.

A new urge arose within me, a primal intuition that led me to satisfy my husband's needs as keenly as my own. My hand began to slide down his body, moving against those long, sinewy lines that were still so foreign to me. In the dark I explored him – from the striking slope of his lower back to the warm curve of his bottom, firm yet soft. He trembled as my fingers traced their way down the back of his thigh, until I couldn't reach any further.

He lifted his head then, just enough to meet my gaze, close and hot in the shadows. His eyes were begging for my touch to continue, and I had no desire to resist indulging him.

I started slow, just as he had with me. He was surprisingly sensitive, I recalled from our first night. The way he initially shied away from my touch made my heart melt. I handled him with gentle confidence, encouraging him to lie belly down on the mattress as I slid out from underneath him. Overcoming my own shyness was no easy feat, even with him facing away from me. Tentatively I cupped both his shoulders in my hands and worked my way down, memorizing every muscle that fluttered under my palms.

The sight of Carlisle's bare back alone could leave a woman breathless. All sweeping lines and masculine fullness, his thick arms and broad shoulders were balanced by a narrow waist, strong hips, and fantastically long legs. I was still hopelessly smitten with those legs of his. Such length was rare, I thought, and it added an element of majestic beauty to his body. Seeing them this way, stretched to the edge of the bed and so very exposed, was intoxicating.

Shaded by a blanket of darkness, his skin looked silky and violet. His thigh twitched when I first reached for him, but I saw his muscles relax as he grew used to the cadence of my touch. The more I touched him, the more I discovered how much of a contradiction he was; how the sharpest angles of his body were balanced by surprising spaces of sensual curves.

He turned over eventually, and let me explore the front of his body. With his eyes closed and his arms resting languidly on either side of him, he looked to me like a sketch in one of Da Vinci's journals. _Carlisle, a study of the male anatomy_. I smiled in secret at the thought while cross-hatching the beautiful bulk of his stomach with my fingertips. I discovered I had a special fascination with the hair on his chest. The night before, it had looked almost silver in the moonlight. Now, in the shadows, it looked much darker than blond – like someone had smudged a soft line of ashes down the middle of his belly, and made a full circle around his navel. I hadn't been able to stare as long at this part of him yesterday, and now my heart did a tiny flip at the sight. It wasn't like when he'd been in the bath with me, and the water had protected him from revealing everything at once. Right now he was splayed out beneath me, like a breathing, blinking statue with hot, supple flesh. I was inspired by his sheer trust and vulnerability.

I mapped him slowly and studiously with my hands, all the while battling shyness so strong it felt like flames licking my cheeks. This man was my husband – a being designed specifically for me. At times I choked on a gasp because of his beauty. I wanted to weep because of the way his skin felt, or the way his eyes watched me so lovingly as I touched him.

I was still so hesitant to touch him _there_, where his desire was made manifest in his flesh. My hands trembled at the mere thought of suddenly reaching down and gripping him with all my strength. I still felt that I needed his permission for such an intimate touch.

I could not see his face clearly in the darkness, so I had no way to read him. Only his breath, his movements, and his innate responsiveness through utter silence led me to interpret what he needed.

With trembling fingers, I felt around for his hand. When I found it, I aligned our hands together – one behind the other – so that I could guide him. It made the heat rush to my face, just imagining the places I could take him, having such control over his hand. He was so vulnerable to me, trusting my every move as I slowly moved his hand down his body, making him touch himself. It was my own shy, vicarious way of pleasuring him... and yet, it was nearly more arousing than if I were to touch him with my own fingers.

I guided his hand first across his chest, moving slow to let him appreciate the span and breadth of his shoulders, and the sturdiness of his flanks. Leading him lower, I pressed my fingers into his and made him feel the smooth, firm flesh of his stomach and thighs. His breathing changed as I dictated our direction, never anticipating where I would take him next. Confidence came to me like snow in late autumn, slowly and surprisingly. I was patient with him, but determined that he must feel how precious each inch of his body was.

When our hands finally converged in his lap, he gave a tiny jolt, still at rest on the bed. I felt the tension ripple through him, gathering in the very pinnacle of his manhood, and as I boldly curved his hand around his length, he thrust instinctively into our overlapping grip.

The unique carnal desire to be filled, stretched and moved within was now controlling my every action. With my hand still guiding his, we created a gentle, gliding friction. Our rhythm was pure instinct, stilling all sounds apart from our breathing, the rain, and the sleek rustle of silk beneath us. I could see the intolerable heat building in his eyes, deeper than the darkness, his passion unyielding and desperate.

He turned me over in a thrilling flash of smooth white skin and violet silk. In moments his hands had mine captive, and with a surgeon's precision, he began teasing my body through my own forced touch, just as I had done to him. He hovered over me, giving gentle, sensual narration in a voice that sent heat curling along my spine. My body had never felt more soft and pliant than it did beneath our joined hands. He made me feel my breasts, my belly, my thighs, and everything I would have been too shy to touch while he watched me.

There came a point where it was too much to bear – his moans of pleasure, the inescapable strength of his hands, our sheer nakedness, coiling and writhing together on the bed. I was entranced by the way he touched me and I touched him, this strange and beautiful form of art. By the time Carlisle's hands had left their heat on every inch of my skin, he was shaking so hard I thought he was going to shatter from the tension. But with the help of his saintly patience, he paused to lift my hands and kiss my fingers. He made the gesture look so reverent, so holy as his eyes opened to stare at me, full of longing and worship.

We both knew then, there would be no more prolonging our union.

I was struck by the sight of him as he poised himself to join me. It was not quite familiar, still strange, but so strikingly beautiful that it almost brought tears to my eyes. His expression became so intense at that moment, so focused and full of love. His chest was heaving, as if he were regaining his courage, and everything about him, from those lovely golden locks framing his forehead, to his tragically long legs seemed so honest and perfect. My body ached for his in a way I had never experienced before – because I now knew what it felt like to be joined with Carlisle, and it was a sensation so divine, so tormentingly exquisite, I knew that I would never be able to resist him again. I wanted to be cradled in his arms, enveloped by his soul, and consumed by his desire.

I could focus on nothing but my ache as he leaned into me, his intention obvious. I opened my lips for his, anticipating his kiss, but he kept me at bay by mere inches before we could meet. He denied me the kiss many times, pulling back ever so slightly when I desperately sought the plush warmth of his lips, teasing me, lifting his mouth out of my reach. Frustration fueled my ache for him, and I became almost delirious. I whimpered in agony, trying to intercept his mouth by lifting my head, but he repeatedly withdrew. My husband was supposed to be compassion incarnate, and here he was making me beg for him during our most intimate moment.

He pushed me gently into the bed, raising his neck at a proud angle to stare down at me, nothing but the most untainted affection gleaming in his eyes. At last I realized his kindness in the moment he finally indulged me with a slow, tender kiss. He knew what he was doing all along by denying me – he was doing me a kindness in reserving that kiss for the very moment we settled into each other as one flesh.

I reached up, clinging to him to keep from getting lost as I fell headlong into a dizzying, overwhelming world of heat and want. Carlisle tempered the kiss to be slow, evocative – an awakening. I sank in and let myself float in bliss, riding the waves of his exquisite ministrations. His tongue slid slowly within, filling me with the tempting spice of his venom. Against my wishes, he broke away, his lips parting in preparation to speak.

"Watch with me," he urged me, his voice shuddering as he gently tipped my head in his hand. He timed his first slow thrust so my gaze would fall on the beautiful sight of our bodies becoming one.

Carlisle had a tendency to speak very candidly in our bed. I was discovering that at certain times he could be _scandalously_ candid. And it was his candidness, this entirely unexpected and uncharacteristic quality, that I most adored about him. I considered it a blessing for my ears to be able to hear everything this chaste and gentle son of a pastor had ever wanted to say but kept hidden inside.

I obeyed his command to watch as he slipped inside me, one precious inch at a time. The feeling was wonderful as much as it was unbearable, but my eyes couldn't help wandering to his face as he entered me. His cheeks were flushed by shadow, but his expression was one of uninhibited relief – as if he still could not fathom his entitlement to such pleasure. It only made me want to love him more.

When I tightened around him, his stomach seized, and he made a sound like he was choking back a sob. He returned to me with a vengeance in his grasp, his hands hot on either side of my waist, and he slid back inside of me – in then out, in then out – then in so deep and so hard that we both groaned from the intense pleasure of it. My body gave out, melting like wax beneath a determined flame, and I submitted completely to him.

_This _was what I remembered from our first night. It was a sensation I'd never felt before our marriage, but it seemed so familiar to me now after just one experience. It was an entire collage of feelings and images all thrashing within my subconscious – the painful intimacy of having him inside me, his body hovering heavily over mine, his face inches away from my face, his eyes gleaming and determined to see into my soul, his aura still swathed with gentleness and compassion. His eyes searching, his breathing hard and measured, roughened by contained lust.

_What are you looking for? _I wanted to ask him. I didn't know how to tell him I found his relentless stare to be sinful. He wouldn't look away from me, even in the dark. He didn't blink once, until I moved beneath him. Until he felt my heat clasping him, and his eyes slipped shut, and a gasp left his lips, laden with unreal pleasure.

Suddenly the muscles of his body were stern and tender against me, fueled by a vampire's endless stamina, unaltered by time and energy. With his miraculous, unaging, primal perfection, Carlisle was made to go on forever. Exhaustion, for us, came only in the emotional sense, not the physical sense. His hips continued to pound ceaselessly, vehemently, tenderly into mine, and his arms bore sturdy on either side of me, like the strong white columns to a fortress. He seemed so wholly devoted to both our pleasure that his quest verged on obsession.

Every thrust made me want to sob from the sweet trauma of his impassioned persistence. I was beginning to fit the pieces together, observing him in the throes of his hot and holy lovemaking. There came a point, not far from the brink of unthinkable pleasure, where he would lose _everything_, save for the sensations in his body and the stirrings in his soul. I learned to look for the spark in his eyes, that warning glint which told me he was nearing that frenzied verge of his climax.

From there on, he raced himself to the finish, raging, zealous, and unconstrained. Panting like a jungle cat, his muscles like magma, his eyes like coals. He drove into me with all the desperation and excitement of a vagabond digging for treasure, determined never to stop until he struck gold.

In the hazy depths of my mind, I worried that when he _did_ strike his gold, he would keep going anyway. It just seemed so impossible that he could stop once he'd started, as if no force on earth could chain him from the tireless siege he imposed on me.

I gladly took all that he had to offer.

He came within me furiously, with more passion and power than I'd ever seen from him before. It was more the vision of his pleasure that induced my own; nothing I felt in the physical realm could compare to the pure love and desire I felt for him. He pinned me down with all his strength and I fell to thrashing pieces beneath him, crying out his name in the darkness like a hymn.

I watched him become a different man above me – a calm and composed angel for one instant became a wild bucking beast. His breath came rough and quivering, muscles tense, his gift hard and hot inside of me. He rode me out until there was no more pleasure to be had for either one of us, and we were washed away into silent stillness, curled upon each other like seafoam shielding a dune of sand.

We said nothing to acknowledge what we had just done, for there was no way to voice the completeness we both felt. There were no words to express our gratitude, the supreme level of our fulfillment being here in each other's arms. I was grateful to surrender to the darkness, allowing the effects of our love to stir endlessly inside of me.

As solid thoughts returned to me, I considered everything that had changed in the past forty-eight hours. Carlisle was my husband, and I was his wife. We had joined ourselves as heaven intended, and now we were one in every way possible. I felt so real and alive, so in tune and aware of everything about him. It was an incomparable feeling, one I couldn't imagine living without.

I turned to him and squinted in shadow to see his face beside mine. His vigilant eyes were trained on mine, and within their depths I could sense his sincerity, his passion, his yielding soul. We could hide nothing from each other now.

He barely smiled as he lowered his lips to my shoulder and left a tender kiss on my skin. His fingers traveled slowly, secretively over my breast until his thumb and forefinger encased my nipple, protecting and hiding it, as if it were a precious jewel he had discovered by accident.

"I love you so much, Esme," he whispered, his voice surprisingly invasive for how soft it was. I trembled at his words and closed my eyes as he moved to kiss my neck.

"I don't see how we can ever be apart now," I admitted. I wanted to cry at the simple thought of leaving this bed and going about our normal lives again.

I could feel him smiling as he kissed me. His voice was muffled when he responded, "We don't have to be. Let's not think past this night." He traced my scars with his tongue. "Right now, you and I are all that exist."

I raised my arms and gathered his head in my hands, pulling him closer to me. I opened my mouth to give him a declaration of my love, but he swallowed it before I could speak. Our kiss went on and on, much like our first. We could drink from each other all night long and still never be satisfied. We had an endless thirst in our hearts, and I hoped to spend every night for the rest of my life with Carlisle, trying to quench it.

* * *

_+Poem quoted is "Hidden Flame" by John Dryden_

**Thank you to everyone for reading! Hope you are all having a wonderful summer. :)**

**-Mackenzie**


	15. Magenta

**Inspired by Magenta**

**Medium: Lipstick on Skin**

* * *

___May 1940_

_~Carlisle_

* * *

The note was crumpled, written hastily on the back of some loose leaf paper. It began:

_Carlisle,_

_I have a request. _

I had only to read the first sentence and know exactly what that request would be. Sure enough, the rest of the letter confirmed my suspicions.

_As one of the most influential doctors in our hospital, it would mean a lot if you said a few words at the benefit next month. Considering how much Dr. Jamison adores you, I think I speak for all of my colleagues when I say it would only be prudent for you to share your experiences with the rest of the medical world and our benefactors._

_Think about it, and let me know if this is something you are willing to do. _

_-Louis_

I'd read the note several times since I'd received it a month ago. The only reason it was crumpled was because I'd taken it in and out of my pocket so often.

It was not the request itself which made me nervous, but rather the potential consequences such attention could afford me. If I went up on stage in front of so many names in New York, I would be asking for a life I couldn't commit to. There was a small chance that I would be noticed for the wrong reason - or the right reason - and both of those reasons could cause just as much trouble.

I understood why they had asked me to speak at the benefit. Not only did I have decent speaking skills, but I had more than decent surgical skills as well. They assumed they were doing me a favor by giving me a moment in the spotlight. Like all young doctors, they thought, I wished to move forward in my career. What better way for me to get a head start than to share my medical expertise on stage in front of some of the top surgeons in the state?

I sighed. Any other doctor would have been flattered and excited for the opportunity. It was true, in my heart, that I was exceedingly flattered and excited to speak to an audience about my passion. But for many other important reasons I also dreaded doing it.

"You have been _so _quiet," Esme's voice interrupted my thoughts.

I breathed deeply and smiled at my wife; but fitting to her accusation, I was unable to think of anything to say. She chuckled and walked up to me, her long white robe rippling around her ankles.

"I know you're nervous," she whispered before placing a chaste kiss on my chin. "But you don't need to be. Not at all."

I rested my head over hers, my chin cushioned by the sponge curlers in her hair as we embraced.

She backed away before I was ready to let her go. The look in her eyes was encouraging, and I took comfort in knowing that at least my wife believed in me. Still, I couldn't bring myself to loosen my grip on her just yet.

She gave me a mocking smile as she gently wrestled her way out of my arms. "I have to go get ready." She sauntered to the bathroom door and looked over her shoulder at me with a perfectly sweet glare, "And so do _you._"

As she softly closed the door behind her, I stared self-consciously down at my informal attire. The suit Esme had picked out for me still hung in the back of our closet. I'd mostly avoided looking at the thing all week because it brought about all the dread of tonight. Now when I opened our closet and faced the expensive charcoal black suit, I felt so small I doubted it would even fit me.

Reluctantly, I forced myself to bring it out and hang it beside our bedroom mirror. I stood back and looked it over, deciding it looked rather nice without a man inside it. I was so used to the ease and looseness of a lab coat that I found suits to be a detestable confinement. I wondered how so many conformist businessmen managed to walk around in them for forty hours out of the week.

Almost tentatively, I stepped forward and rubbed the material of the sleeve between my fingers. It felt too stiff and new. Unworn. I didn't like it.

I tore my hand away and turned toward the window, eager to see some light before the sun set for the evening. The sky was still pleasantly bright, and the blossom-choked trees were cast in a veil of pink from the sinking sun. I braced my arms defiantly against the sides of the window and thrust them apart to let some air in. The window squeaked in pain as I pushed it further open, still rusty and stubborn from rare use.

As I inhaled the fresh evening air, I realized how much I'd missed being outside. Work had taken over much of my life lately, and as much as I enjoyed what I did for a living, I knew that my family felt the effects of my absence when I worked too hard. Especially Esme.

I ran a hand through my hair as I rested my back against the side of the window. My wife had accepted my choice to work full time in the local hospital with dignity and maturity. She rarely complained about my workload, even when I felt it was obvious that I was neglecting her. Even tonight, I was asking her to get dressed up and leave the house for _me._ She deserved more consideration, more attention from me.

The air in the bedroom behind me felt stuffy and confining. I leaned further out the window as if hoping the wind would sweep around me and lift me up to the skies. I didn't want to think about the benefit, or the people who would be listening to my speech tonight, or how much time I _hadn't _spent with Esme in the past few months.

I wanted to escape. I felt trapped.

"Carlisle."

My heart jumped at the sound of my wife's voice calling for me from inside. I turned my head quickly and found myself at yet another loss for words as I stared at the breathtaking beauty before me.

Esme rarely wore vibrant colors out, mostly because they attracted too much attention. But tonight she wore a formal silk cocktail dress in a bold watermelon pink. The dress emphasized every luscious, feminine curve she possessed, most notably in the way it dipped strategically between her breasts, offering a tempting peek of perfect cleavage. She had taken out those pesky sponge-curlers, and now her hair fell in full, glossy waves around her shoulders, shining the color of fox-hide in the lamplight.

"What do you think?" she asked with a shy smile as she turned slowly for me. While the front of her dress was magnificently scant enough, the back of her dress was ... nonexistent. The deep pink silk faithfully covered her shoulder blades, but it left between them a window of milky white skin that stretched all the way down to her waist.

I took a shaky breath and gave a pitiful reply. "I don't ... know."

A lovely flash of anger pierced her golden eyes, and her smile turned into an annoyed smirk. "Your expression would say otherwise," she said hotly, setting her hand on her hip.

Swallowing my nerves, I stood upright from my safe space in the window and cleared my throat. "You look...stunning, Esme."

She sighed and looked down, but I could see her trying to hide a forgiving smile.

"Too stunning," I murmured half to myself.

She glared up at me. "What does that mean?"

"You know what it means," I said quietly, looking at her with nothing but love. Her expression softened, but I noticed the twinkle in her eye.

"Oh, Carlisle, don't start getting jealous before we've even arrived at the party."

Like any man would, I valiantly defended myself against her accusation. "Jealousy has nothing to do with this. And it isn't a _party, _Esme."

"I know that," she said stubbornly.

I opened my mouth to retort, but thought the better of it. Instead, I spoke slowly and directly. "This is very important to me."

"I know that..." she repeated, more gently this time. "That's why I'm supporting you, isn't it?" Her eyelashes happened to flutter at exactly the right moment.

I moved helplessly over to her and gathered her into my arms, a forgiving smile in place. "Have I told you how much I appreciate you for that?"

I bent my head down and placed a few innocent kisses along her throat. She let her neck tilt back, allowing me more room to paint her skin with my tongue. "Hmmm... I might consider this thanks enough," she muttered happily in the midst of my impassioned exploration.

I started to slide my fingers down her back, and I immediately felt her shiver.

"Carlisle, please," she sighed, suddenly tense. "We can't, darling."

"I'm not..."

Before I could defend my innocence, she gave me a knowing stare.

It had the desired effect, and I looked down at my feet, slightly ashamed at my brashness. Fortunately, Esme was quick to forgive.

She tipped my chin up. "We have to get ready," she said, her voice softening as she tilted her head to the side and stared lovingly into my eyes. "Now kiss me before I put on my lipstick."

I grinned with boyish joy and obeyed her delightful command, determined to satisfy her before I even thought about backing away.

Apparently I'd gotten a bit carried away in my efforts.

Esme pulled away from the kiss with a breathless little gasp, her eyes still closed. She bowed her head as she quietly wrapped her fingers around my wrists and pulled them out from behind her back.

"Put your hands in your pockets." Her whisper had a chiding edge to it which I found strangely titillating.

She held my wrists tightly until I did as I was told. Then she placed her hand on my chest and stared pensively up at me. "We should try not to touch each other too much tonight."

I must have looked crestfallen because Esme gave me her infamous exasperated expression.

"Don't give me that look, Carlisle."

"What look?" I pouted.

She tried not to, but I saw her grin as she quickly turned away from me and arranged herself in front of her vanity mirror.

"Go put your suit on."

I reached grudgingly for the suit in question and laid it out on the bed. It offended me just the same no matter how I looked at it. But there was no way to escape it now. I had to put it on.

I let out an exaggerated sigh, but Esme was smart enough to ignore me. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she untwisted a tube of magenta lipstick and leaned toward her mirror.

An invisible hand slapped my cheek to the side so my attention was directed on my own task instead. I lifted my comfortable cotton shirt over my head and tossed it tragically onto the bed. My fingers stiffened as I tried to unbutton my pants, suddenly seized by the feeling that I was being intensely observed. I glanced toward the mirror and noticed Esme watching me discreetly through the reflection.

She looked away quickly when I caught her staring, and I couldn't help feeling a little bit satisfied by that. With her gaze otherwise occupied, I was free to watch her apply her lipstick. I could admit to myself that I found the process somewhat fascinating. As she coated her lips in the rose petal color, she seemed to transform into a different woman.

Esme obviously had no need for cosmetics when we were alone in the house, but she'd taken to using them often when we had to make social appearances, simply to spare suspicions. I knew this was a logical decision - if someone were to get so much as a glimpse of my wife's natural beauty they would surely suspect something strange about her. The makeup provided convenient justification for why she looked as stunning as she did. It was more a disguise than anything else.

I continued to watch her as she brushed blush powder on her cheeks and traced black pencil along her eyelids. But even more fascinating was the scandalous amount of cleavage she displayed when she leaned forward to apply her mascara. Distracted, I barely noticed the unacceptable length of time it was taking me to put my new pants on. I felt senseless heat rise to my face as I struggled to zip up over my steadily growing erection.

_Calm down, _I told my inner 23-year-old, letting my hands rest at my sides for a moment before slipping my arms into my dress shirt. Unpredictably, Esme stopped me.

"Is that _gray_?" she asked as if it were the most horrific mistake a man could make.

I nodded pathetically, and she scoffed in disapproval. Quick as a flash, she went into the closet and came back to me with a crisp white shirt. "Always wear white under black," she recited.

I tensed up from her proximity and discreetly let the gray shirt hang low to cover my lap from her view.

"What's wrong with this one?" I asked, gesturing to the shirt I was half-wearing.

She shook her head as she dutifully stripped me of the gray shirt. "You're going to be under a spotlight, Carlisle. The gray will wash you out and make you look even paler than you already are."

I felt a faint tickle of nerves return to my stomach as I was reminded of the pending events of the evening. Any arousal I'd felt moments ago melted away with that thought. I gulped. It was hard to hide the effect from my wife when she was close enough to see my adam's apple slide down my throat.

"Don't you dare wear that expression on stage, Carlisle. People will think you're ill."

I shifted uncomfortably as I tried to straighten my face.

Esme's furious little hands suddenly stopped adjusting and buttoning. She looked hard at me and I saw pity fill her eyes. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I guess I'm just as nervous as you."

I clasped her hand wordlessly and kissed her fingertips. "Tell me everything will be fine?" I murmured into her palm.

She nodded fervently. "It will. I know it will."

I stared down at her dubiously.

"Do you know why they chose you?" she asked me with a knowing smile as she draped my necktie around my shoulders and began to knot it. I shook my head. "Because you have a gift when you speak, Carlisle. You can _move _people with your words. You make people want to learn more, and you can inspire them to be more giving."

I glowed from her praise, sheepishly looking away when she showered me with unnecessary compliments. I realized now just how much I'd needed to hear them.

"They're putting you up there for a reason, you know," she continued, clearly thrilled with the effect her zealous flattery had on me. "They want a genuine, honest, and caring man to speak for them... And it certainly doesn't hurt to have such a handsome face represent the hospital," she added cheekily, nudging my jaw with her elegant knuckle.

"Esme..." I leaned closer to kiss her, but she stopped me short with a little squeak of alarm. I was confused for a moment when I felt something flat and silky pressed against my mouth. Looking down I saw that she had cleverly flipped the end of my necktie up and was using it to cover my lips.

"You'll ruin my lipstick," she warned with an irresistible smirk.

I looked longingly down at her all the same, but she carried on relentlessly, determined that I shouldn't give in to any more distractions.

"Hand me your jacket," she ordered.

And so I obeyed her thereafter as she finished dressing me. All the while I was limp with lovesickness, staring adoringly at her, wistful that the night would just end right now and I could have her just how I wanted her. But of course I was not so lucky.

She buttoned me up and brushed me off and straightened my tie about a thousand times. Then she noticed my belt was unbuckled, so she tightened it and strapped it together with a disarming amount of strength. My body seemed to want any excuse to become aroused again. I winced and let her finish without interruption.

"Do I have to help you into your shoes, too?" she asked in mock exasperation when she was through.

"I can manage," I told her, grateful for an excuse to sit down.

"Good."

She returned to her mirror to finish curling her eyelashes, and I continued to lament about her covering up her natural beauty. She didn't need any of it. _Good Lord, she was pretty enough_, I thought with an angry tug on my belt.

I forced myself to stand and walk to the window, hoping the cool air would help. I knew the wind would ruin my hair but I couldn't have cared less at the moment. Luckily I was able to calm down somewhat from my frenzied nerves. That frustrating heat fled my body in one soothing caress of the wind. So did my hairstyle.

"Carlisle, come back here," Esme demanded in her usual motherly way. When I refused to turn away from the window, she came over and pulled me back to the mirror and sat me down on her stool.

I was warmed again by her appealing laughter as she ran her fingers through my mussed up hair. "You're hopeless, you know that?" she whispered with a quick kiss on the top of my head which I barely felt. "Sit still so I can fix you up." She lifted the comb like it was her weapon of choice, and I braced myself for her madness.

I watched her reflection in the mirror in front of us, knowing I should have felt emasculated by her overbearing attention. But I didn't. I just felt very, very loved. And that was a remarkably nice feeling.

I'm sure it would have felt even nicer under the covers.

I glanced at the bed behind us through the mirror, finding the sight of those thick cotton comforters quite appetizing. I briefly entertained a the idea of seducing Esme into staying home tonight, but quickly remembered that this was impossible. Apparently so was my hair.

"I can't seem to get this right," Esme was complaining, even though something in her face seemed almost excited about that one curl that just wouldn't stay in place. "It just doesn't want to stay down, does it?"

Folding my hands in my lap, I cocked an eyebrow and exchanged glances with my reflection. _No, it certainly doesn't. _

She heaved a sigh of resignation and set the comb down on her vanity table. "I suppose that will have to do." Even so, she didn't stop toying with that one stray curl on my forehead.

"Esme," I said sternly.

She met my eyes innocently through the mirror.

"Let it go, darling."

She bit her lip in apology and withdrew her fidgety fingers.

With that I stood up tall and proud in front of the mirror, taking in my appearance. Truthfully I didn't look much different from my normal everyday self, except for the fact that I felt like a damned piece of corn strapped inside its husk.

"You see, the suit isn't as bad as you thought!" Esme said victoriously, completely misinterpreting my silence.

"I never said it was bad, did I?" I challenged her.

"Not in so many words," she admitted. "But you sure did avoid putting it on for as long as you could. Come to think of it, you wouldn't even look at it when I first showed it to you," she added, laughing at the memory.

I smiled reluctantly. "I guess I just don't like wearing suits."

Esme gaped at me.

"This coming from a man who wore those ridiculous waistcoats in the 1700's!" she exclaimed with a slap against my arm. "You used to prance around in those skin-tight stockings with nine layers of brocade and those silly lace things tied around your poor neck! How on earth is _this_ any worse?"

"First of all, I did not _prance,_"I said forcefully, straightening my jacket with a stern grip. "Second, I didn't know any better back then. And third, I _only _wore all of that when I was in formal company. When I was alone I didn't wear any of it."

"Any of it?" she asked with a look of feigned shock. I felt her fingers slip lovingly along the curve of my backside as she awaited my answer.

"Wasn't it you who said we should try _not _to touch each other tonight?" I asked irritably, ignoring her question.

She instantly snapped her hand out of the way, and I suppressed a feeling of disappointment at the loss of her touch.

"I'm sorry, Carlisle," she apologized, the remnants of her amusement fading away alarmingly fast.

I felt badly for being so harsh with her, but I couldn't very well explain to her the real reasons why her roaming hands posed a serious problem for me tonight.

"It's alright," I sighed my forgiveness, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. "It's just my nerves."

She shrugged sweetly and tucked my tie beneath my jacket. "I didn't mean any of it. The prancing, I mean."

I growled playfully and nipped her ear as she struggled against me with wholesome laughter. "Watch it or you'll ruin _my _hair!" she whimpered, pushing me away.

I smiled fondly at her as she swiftly plucked her silk evening gloves from the drawer and slid them slowly onto her fingers and up her forearms. They were meant to stop at her elbows, but they drooped a little because she didn't like them too tight. I teased her about it until she pulled them all the way up.

She looked disturbingly beautiful either way.

With her delicate silver shoes and diamond jewelry, Esme was a vision to be reckoned with. Edward told her she looked 'exceptionally beautiful' tonight, and Emmett even whistled when he saw her getting into the car, and the whole time I was driving I panicked about the looks she would receive from other men when we walked into the hotel where the benefit was being held.

It had been a long time since I'd felt the sensation of jealousy. I had no reason to envy other men. I had everything I had ever needed or wanted in life. It was more the nasty, sickly feeling of helplessness I felt when a human man gave Esme attention or stared a bit too long. It was not quite jealousy, but the seed that caused it to grow in time. It was a little flame of anger in my chest that demanded full, feral protection of my mate in all circumstances. Some of the men in attendance were practically drooling at the sight of her - and even worse, they weren't even ashamed enough to hide it.

I wasn't surprised they all happened to be those exasperating conformists in their replicated suits.

Then I glanced down at myself and remembered that I looked no different than the rest of them tonight. But Esme, when compared to the other women at the benefit, stood out like Aphrodite in a nunnery.

She still went about smiling like nothing was wrong. She shook hands with people when I introduced her, and she smiled politely when the conversations drifted to topics she knew little about. She took champagne when it was offered to her, and I pretended to drink it right along with her. She held her breath when a particularly sweet-smelling human came into our vicinity, and I squeezed her hand as a signal for when it was clear for her to breathe again.

We did well together for most of the evening, until they directed us into the grand hall for the dinner.

I felt my throat constrict when I saw the roomful of round tables and the stage against the wall. I had to let go of Esme's hand because I realized I was actually beginning to tremble. She noticed anyway.

I pressed my hand to my stomach and stepped back. She pressed her hand to my back and pushed forward.

"Not time for that yet," she reminded me, gesturing with her shoulder to the waitstaff carrying trays of food into the room. "Looks like you'll have to conquer dinner first." We exchanged queasy looks and shared a secret laugh.

I walked her to our table and held the chair out for her, observing many other men do the same for their wives. So far, I thought, we were blending in rather well. I still kept a wandering eye out for suspicious observers, just in case.

After a little while, Esme comfortingly rubbed my thigh beneath the table. "Settle down, sweetheart. No one is looking at us," she remarked, low enough that even the other couples at our table couldn't hear.

But they _were_ looking at us. Four people to be exact. One server, two women over the age of fifty, and one other doctor I knew from the hospital. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, or maybe I was imagining it all because of my nerves. I wanted to give my wife the benefit of the doubt, but I couldn't ignore what my eyes were seeing.

After some coaxing from Esme, I reluctantly joined in the small talk that was occurring at our table. Our conversational skills had improved vastly since the last time we had to interact with other humans together. There was less awkwardness that came with having little in common with the other couples. We had come prepared to prattle on about the petty current events and dull hobbies that consumed most humans' time. I was outwardly impressed when Esme was able to name some local clothing designers to the woman sitting beside her. I hid my grin with a well-timed false sip of champagne. My wife was a talented little actress.

But the acting became admittedly tougher when we were served dinner. Esme had taken to pretending to wipe her mouth after every bite in order to spit out the food and toss it into her handbag beneath the table. I had no easy way to hide the food from my plate, and so I'd had to settle for stuffing it into napkins in my pockets. The last time I'd eaten in front of other humans had ended disastrously. Because I hadn't come prepared, I was forced to swallow half of what was on my plate. Esme and I had spent the rest of that evening outside, coughing up our cordon bleu. Not wanting to relive those unpleasant events, I was determined not to ingest a single crumb tonight.

As we were eating, the lights dimmed and the host came onto the stage. Esme must have sensed my immediate tension, because I soon felt her hand sneak supportively behind my back as the man began to speak to the crowd. In the darkness, I glanced down at the paper program in my lap and read through the names, gulping when I arrived at my own.

I stared blankly at my name, written in fancy script on the page along with all the others. _Brave souls, _I thought foolishly. I'd never been this anxious for anything in my entire life, especially not something as trivial as giving a speech. I'd never had any problems with speaking in public; even as a human I recalled practicing sermons for the congregation I would one day lead. If I had something important to say, I craved sharing it with an audience. Why, then, was I so frightened to take the stage tonight?

Lost in my thoughts, I jumped a little when I felt Esme's fingers gently pry the corner of the program from my grip. She folded it up and placed it in her own lap, then leaned toward my ear. "You haven't eaten enough, darling."

I glanced at the table full of empty plates, and it became obvious that mine was the only one still half full. I reluctantly lifted my fork and continued the charade of enjoying my food for the sake of the people around me. Thankfully, their attention was mostly focused on the various speakers that had taken the stage. I counted minutes as I mentally checked off the order of the speakers I'd seen on the program. As it came closer to my turn, I started to fidget enough that Esme thought it appropriate to brace her foot against mine beneath the table.

My fork still shook every time I lifted it to my mouth. I was running out of room in my pockets by the time I'd finished about three quarters of my plate, but before I could fabricate an excuse to leave the table for a moment, a man came up behind me and whispered into my ear. "You're next on stage, Doctor Cullen. Better come back with me."

My chest deflated as I looked over at Esme. Her eyes were forlorn but she wore an encouraging smile on her lips. On her heartbreakingly pink lips.

I wanted to scream as I stood up calmly and excused myself from the table. Esme reached out just in time to squeeze my hand before I left. I noticed that her gloves were drooping again.

I felt like I was shrinking steadily in size as I walked further through the dark room full of tables toward the brightly lit hotel hall. I recognized the young man who escorted me as one of the interns that had joined our team earlier this year. He grinned proudly at me as he instructed me to stand just outside the stage entrance. "Just listen for your name and come out whenever he calls you," he said, pointing to our chief of surgery who was presently on the stage. "Good luck, Dr. Cullen!" he said with a pat on my back before disappearing into the dining room.

I glanced down both sides of the seemingly endless hallway, noticing for the first time just how breathtaking the decor was in this place. Marble sideboards marked the walls every ten feet or so, decked with fat white vases full of pink and red roses. Chandeliers with plump pinkish diamonds lined the ceiling, and rich gold and red curtains framed the windows. The carpet was reminiscent of the patterns I'd seen in Persia, and the familiarity gave me a fleeting sense of comfort.

It was so quiet out here.

Self-consciously, I smoothed the front of my jacket, remembering the bits of food I'd stuffed into napkins which I still needed to dispose of. I frantically looked around for a waste bin of some kind, and finding none, I had to settle for stuffing them all into one of the decorative vases. I winced as I dropped the half-chewed food inside, hoping the poor custodian who discovered them wouldn't be too repulsed.

I stood back with my hands stiffly at my sides, realizing I had reached a point where all I could really do was laugh at myself for overreacting. It wasn't the end of the world, even if this night didn't go how I hoped it would. I didn't have anything to lose by doing it; on the contrary I had much to gain. But that was partly what worried me.

The achingly familiar scent of Esme's perfume made me stand up straight. I looked down the hall and saw my wife standing there by the doors, a glowing smile of pity on her lovely face.

"I'm not ready," were the first words I thought to say.

But this made no sense. I had memorized my speech word for word; even with my perfect memory. I had rehearsed my expressions and inflections in the mirror countless times for insurance. I knew there was no reason to fear, yet still I felt a sweet, humbling grip of terror in my heart for what I was about to do.

Esme only smiled. "Of course you are."

I shook my head defiantly as she glided over to where I stood.

She looked me up and down, her eyes sparkling like champagne in the soft chandelier lights. "You look so handsome, Carlisle."

Her compliment, while kind, only made me feel more vulnerable.

"That doesn't make me feel much better," I confessed with a wince.

She spluttered out a reluctant little laugh, and I laughed along with her - quietly, pityingly - both of us trying to relieve the tension.

I felt myself breathing very hard as I stared out onto the stage and back to her. "I think my heart has started beating again."

She shook her head and cupped my cheek in her hand. "When this is all over, you'll be kicking yourself for how ridiculous you sound right now." Her full lips quirked into her signature mocking smile. For a moment I considered kissing her, but then I had some very strong second thoughts about going onstage with bright magenta lips.

"You don't have to worry at all," she whispered, stroking my cheek with her thumb. "You'll be amazing."

Esme's words blended out of existence as the speaker's voice announced my name from the stage.

"Ladies and gentleman, please welcome our very own Doctor Carlisle Cullen."

The last thing I felt was Esme's tiny hand on my back, giving me one final nudge into the dark, glittering room.

My senses were consumed by a gentle sea of applause as I made my entrance. The sound was surprisingly pleasant, welcoming even. But it sounded vague and distant, as if I were underwater. A blinding spotlight found me, and I squinted out at the crowd of distorted faces in the darkness.

There was a short second then, as I felt that unspoken cue to begin speaking, where I feared I had lost my voice entirely. I was only able to recall one moment - Esme's face as she sent me out onto the stage, how she had looked and sounded when she uttered the words, "_You'll be amazing._" Her eyes glittering, her voice almost worshipful, and her touch - how it lingered on my back just before she sent me off to speak in front of hundreds of humans.

Just as the applause tapered off into respectful silence, I found her face in the crowd. Darkened though she was by shadow, her porcelain beauty and beaming pink lips urged me to let go of my fear.

I introduced myself to the crowd as easily as I would have introduced myself to a friend of a friend. Once I'd said those first few words, nothing could stop me from saying the rest.

With the stage under my command, I realized how much I _needed _to say. I completely disregarded the carefully crafted notes I had organized for myself earlier that week, and I utterly ignored all of the inflections and expressions I'd practiced in the mirror so many times. Everything I shared with this audience was honest and true. None of it was rehearsed.

I recounted some of the most moving experiences I'd had while working at the hospital. I shared stories about my patients - some humorous and others heartbreaking. I explained the importance of giving, and the rewards that come from donating generously to a good cause. By the end of my time slot, I could hear women sniffling and men murmuring their agreement. But above it all, I could hear my wife whispering her words of encouragement, supporting me just as faithfully as she always had in a time when I needed her most.

I more felt than heard the roar of applause when I finished, and I was overwhelmed by the sense of relief and joy that washed through me as I shook hands with everyone I came into contact with thereafter. As precisely as I'd feared, Esme and I were the central focus of the rest of the evening. And I didn't mind one bit.

Somehow my wife had known all along that I would succeed tonight. Not only did she know I would make it through, but she knew I would do so with colors soaring. I felt a hundred times more the man I was before, so fulfilled by this small but monumental evening. And as we left the hotel that night, still shaking hands with everyone who crossed our path, Esme reminded me repeatedly just how amazing she knew I would be.

"Do you know how many women tonight told me how lucky I am to have you as a husband?" she asked me when we were finally out of earshot of the rest of the departing crowd.

I chuckled low and kissed her forehead. "You'd better not tell me. I happen to work with many of their husbands."

"I can't wait to go home," she confessed as she leaned into me.

"Why is that?" I asked, trying not to reveal too much curiosity.

"So I can take off this lipstick and you can finally kiss me."

**-}0{-**

It wasn't long after we arrived home that Esme decided what we were going to do with the rest of the evening. Her smile was radiant and a little fierce as she dragged me up the stairs to our bedroom. The tightness of her tiny hand around my elbow sent a lusty fire coursing through my limbs.

I followed longingly after her, beguiled as ever by the unfathomable power that my wife possessed over me. Esme was the epitome of a perfect wife, submissive but never helpless; respectful but never desperate. The hold she had on my heart was intoxicating and frustrating all at the same time. She always kept me guessing, ensuring that I still had to work for her affections while she generously showered me with love when she saw fit. Esme had admitted to me before that she thought it was hard to determine which of us had the upper hand in our relationship. Secretly, I thought the answer was quite obvious. Esme had _both _her hands over me.

She had a way of being perplexing and mysterious when she wanted to be. Even after so many years of marriage she could still torture me by withholding secrets. I supposed most women shared this infuriating power over men. My Esme was no exception to the age old rule. She had all the guile of a playful sprite and all the grace of a goddess.

As she pushed me into our dark bedroom and twisted around to close the door, I could barely contain the throbbing in my groin.

She reached out to me and her fingers left a teasing trail of heat along my chest. I leaned in to kiss her but she stopped me again. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

With a frustrated chuckle, I immediately remembered her rigid rules about lipstick and kissing. Thankfully, I'd had a solution in mind since the evening began. "Wait here," I told her, whisking her over to sit on the edge of our bed.

I went into the bathroom and let the faucet run warm water over a small washcloth. Esme looked intrigued as I sat down beside her and lifted the damp cloth to her mouth. Her eyes watched me adoringly as I gently scrubbed away the offensive color from her lips.

"Would you be very angry with me if I forbid you from ever wearing lipstick again?" I asked her teasingly.

She gave me a playful glare. "You don't make the rules." Her voice was muffled by the washcloth as I continued rubbing her lower lip.

My voice was helplessly husky when I spoke next. "Sometimes I do."

I met her eyes significantly, appreciating the darkness that infused her gaze at my loving insinuation.

"Not in this case," she said, a little shakily. "And besides, I know you like it."

"Like what?" I asked, pausing mid-scrub to rest my fingers on the corner of her lip.

"When I wear lipstick," she supplied with a slow, seductive smile. Her now naked lips looked ironically even more tempting, plump as they were from my relentless rubbing.

"It is becoming on you," I admitted softly. "But not when it inhibits my freedom to kiss you whenever I please."

Placing her hand over mine, she gently pushed the washcloth down and away. She cocked her head to the side, inviting me in with a purring whisper. "You can kiss me now."

I indulged her promptly with a long, luxurious kiss. Our lips played lazily off each other, exploring and confiding, languid and generous. Eventually my loss of breath caught up to me, but I ignored it in favor of deepening the kiss. Esme moaned softly, and her hand somehow slipped into the waistband of my pants.

I gasped and broke off our kiss, desperate to remove my clothes after a long night of discomfort in formal attire. As I stood up, the first piece I removed was my jacket, which I laid responsibly on the back of a chair. Esme watched me approvingly as I unbuttoned my white shirt and repeated the careful series of actions, making sure the fabric wouldn't wrinkle.

One corner of her mouth turned up sharply as she admired me in my bare chest and dress pants. Slowly, she stood up too and came before me, her gloved hands bracing my hips. "Let me help you out of these pants."

My engorged arousal swelled with excitement at her suggestion. Her fingers made quick work of my belt and buttons. I nearly fell over her when she pulled my zipper down in purposefully slow motion. Feeling defiant, I tore my legs out of the pants and tossed them onto the chair with the rest of my clothes, no longer giving a damn about wrinkles. Esme laced her fingers around my drawers and pulled them off me just as easily, forcing me around to sit on the bed while she made a show of slipping her sleeves off her shoulders. Sooner than I was prepared for, she shimmied free of the bold pink silk, and her breasts bobbed free, her rosy nipples begging for my attention.

I reached out to touch her, but she interrupted by gently pressing her palm against mine before I could. I stared at her in wordless question but her only answer was to tug her dress down past her hips, letting it fall to the floor. I smiled helplessly when she stepped out of her silver heeled slippers, shrinking down to her true height. When she finally stood before me, snow-white and gloriously nude, she stepped closer and loosened her grip on my hand, allowing me to touch her.

I let my fingers entertain themselves, stroking up and down her flat tummy while I covered her neck and bosom in soft, whispery kisses. Needing support, her hands flailed out to clutch my shoulders, her head curving over mine as I tongued her bare skin senselessly.

Her still gloved arm snaked its way between our bodies, close enough to press her silk-encased fingers into my abs. I groaned at the delicious tightness growing in my belly, encouraging her fingers to slide down lower.

"Oh, Carlisle."

I reeled at the way she sighed my name, but I thought it strange how her voice was so overflowing with affection and worship as she palmed my unruly erection. As if I were making a sacrifice for _her_ by letting myself become aroused. As if I had labored hard and long to offer her this, when really all it took was one whisper from her to ignite it.

I stared shyly down at this aching part of my body, filled with wonder that it featured in her every fantasy. I remembered a time when I'd worried that I would not live up to her expectations, having had no experience with physical love before I'd met Esme. I'd spent all my life regarding the male organ as something foolish and troublesome, but after I let Esme touch me, my thoughts turned around completely. This flesh between my legs had precious purpose; a fount of endless offerings for one perfect woman.

It was Esme who had taught me to love and appreciate my body in ways I'd never imagined before. With her guiding hands, I'd learned to find the beauty in myself - both emotional and physical.

She reached down and startled me with the sudden, hot pressure of both her hands as she began kneading my thighs like they were mounds of dough. As deeply as I enjoyed the feeling of the silk against my skin, I longed to take those gloves off her hands.

My trembling fingers made their way suggestively up her forearm where the lip of the glove lay loose around her elbow. In one sly sweep I stole the glove from her right hand, whipping it off inside out and tossing it behind me. With a low growl of appreciation, I kissed her unveiled flesh all along the underside of her arm and down her wrist.

While she was distracted I tried to capture her other gloved hand, but she swiftly hid it behind her back. I looked up at her, and she stared down at me with a conquering smile, pressing down against my shoulder until my back met the mattress.

She joined me on the bed, slinking her way over my body with catlike movements, her slender legs brushing up against mine and her long hair sliding along my skin like a veil of silk. I peered up at her through her lustrous curls, begging her for the intimate touch I so dearly craved.

I was slightly surprised by the expression of deep thought on her pretty face. Wondering what on earth she could be thinking, I opened my mouth to ask what was causing this unprecedented delay. My lips closed at the light pressure of her gloved fingers over my mouth. "Just relax," she said softly, pressing me deeper into the pillows. "I want to try something."

An indecent thrill shot through me at her cryptic whisper. I watched complacently as she used her teeth to pull the end of her glove off the tips of her fingers. Her eyes never left mine as she stretched out the delicate magenta glove, testing it for durability. My breath hitched when I realized her intentions. Before I could protest, her hands came toward my face, aligning the silky glove over my eyes to blindfold me.

"Darling, what-"

"Just trust me, Carlisle," she sighed, kissing my nose as she tied a knot behind my head.

I blew out a long, shaky breath, not so keen about losing my primary sense so early in the night. Still, I knew I could trust Esme.

I started a bit at the introduction of her fingertips along my collarbone, which she traced with a light and loving touch. Her hands moved to each of my shoulders, defining the curves and lines in my biceps as she worked her way down both my arms at once. The way she touched me always reminded me of how she made art, the quick, precise, passionate motions akin to smudging charcoal into canvas paper. The tension I'd initially felt melted somewhat under my wife's tenderly massaging fingers. As nice as the silk had felt, no sensation could compare to her bare skin against mine.

When her hands found mine, I clasped her fingers appreciatively for a moment, giving her my unvoiced blessing to continue the journey wherever she pleased. I thought I heard her laugh softly as her hands wriggled free of my grip, but I couldn't be certain.

Her fingers returned, warmer this time, on my breast where my heart should have beat. She dragged her knuckles down the tough flatness of my chest, and twisted her fingertips gently around my nipples. Then she traveled further, her fingers floating like mist across a dewy field. She drew trails like rivers down my stomach, and eventually let her fingers slide into more intimate territory.

At first I thought it was her finger. But the preposterous slickness made me second guess that assumption.

It wasn't her finger. It was her tongue.

"Esme!" I hissed out her name in shock.

I couldn't help it. The game was over. I whipped her makeshift blindfold off my eyes and stared at her in flushed disbelief.

"Carlisle, it's alright... I want this," she assured me, her chin still poised inches above my lap.

At a loss for speech, I simply shook my head in breathless denial.

"I know this is something you've wanted, too," she added quietly as her fingers gently clutched my thigh.

My mouth fell open and I continued to stare, completely disarmed by her blunt but all too true assumption. In our twenty years of marriage, this had always been the unspoken point at which we glossed over our true desires. While my wife did not suppress her passions consciously, her memories and fears sometimes did it for her.

"I don't want anything that makes you uncomfortable," I said, honest but hesitant.

"I know that." She smiled softly in understanding as she bent down, so achingly feminine and full of quiet power. Although my body was blazing with anticipation, I was still overwhelmed and confused by her shift in behavior.

"Wait!"

Her tongue flickered longingly between her lips as her gaze met mine, and I shut my eyes tightly to regain my composure.

"Why tonight?" I whispered to her from my pillow.

A content gleam filled her dark eyes as she reached out and gently petted my hand on the bed. "Because you deserve it."

She let out an amused little chuckle, presumably at the expression on my face, which I supposed was simultaneously puzzled and glowing with pure masculine pride. Planting both hands between my arms and my sides, she raised herself up and leaned across me to grace my lips with a long, loving kiss.

I felt my heart grow warm with want as her lips lingered on my mouth. She whispered her affections into my skin, and my eyes closed in utter peace while she trailed her kisses down my neck, across my chest, and finally down the center of my stomach. I tensed when I felt the plush wetness of her lips tease my thigh, but I was rewarded with an exquisite explosion of pleasure when she took me into her mouth.

Esme had kissed me here before - several times in fact - but her kisses felt different when they fell below my waist. I'd always felt that she had intended for them to feel like accidents rather than a purposeful placement of her lips. She'd treated me in swift and delicate form, with a brief brush of her bottom lip or a feathery flicker of the tip of her tongue. Yet however swift, discreet, or shy those kisses had been, they had thrilled me in ways more profound than I could comprehend. I longed for more from her, but I'd never known how to tell her this.

I should have known she'd been reading my desires from the very beginning.

The thought sent a divine wave of humble delight through my body. A quiet moan rose from my throat as I succumbed to her prowess. Yet even in my dazed state, I could sense her timidity in the way she moved her lips around me. For how generously she suckled me, there was an innocence to the way she tucked and twirled her tongue. And that made the experience all the more overpowering.

I had imagined this scenario many times before, but I'd never dared make any hints to Esme. I was firmly devoted to letting her set the pace for every step in our relationship. Sometimes she was even ready to take those steps before I was, but we had always been honest with one another. Even so, I never imagined I could be rewarded so handsomely for simply waiting.

Time was kind to me - very kind indeed. I felt it in the clasping of her warm lips, the gentle scrape of her teeth against my sensitive flesh, the excruciating purrs pouring into my body through her moving mouth.

"Oh, Esme..."

I could barely find words, my hand shaking as it came to helpless rest on my hip. Never alone for long, Esme's hand soon crept upon mine. The gesture was comforting and reassuring; and at the same time, it aroused me even more.

I could feel the dangerous tremors of a fast-approaching climax beginning in my muscles. Like smooth fire in my legs, and white-hot pebbles dancing across my midriff. Everything melted into one glorious sensation that continued to rise like a tidal wave and wither like a handful of burnt grass.

"Darling..." I tried to warn her as I felt myself coming closer to the edge. I managed to whisper one word: "_Please_," before she finally looked up at me. "Th-that's enough now," I told her, as gently as I could with a clenched jaw and uncontrollable rip-tides of pleasure.

She looked up at me, startled, her gaze sparkling with understanding. I reached for her with trembling fingers and she gripped me, falling into my embrace.

For as many times as I wanted to tell her that I loved her, she forced me into a state of silence with her eyes. I would move to kiss her, but my body would seize altogether, stopped still by a piercing glance of pure gold. She reigned over me for a long while in our bed, and I was more than willing to subject myself to her whims for as long as she pleased.

At the height of our passion, we tangled together in bliss, rolling over into what seemed to be the inevitable nesting of nature's intention. Somehow it always happened so that my body lay vigilant over hers, bending and rising with pride and purpose. And she became my sublime place of rest beneath me, soft and begging, whispering her words of encouragement.

Her flesh was pinker than usual - a pink vivid enough to shame that of the dress she wore earlier that night. I let my fingers venture down, stroking and stretching her delicate flesh. Like petals she parted, warm and slick with nectar, all because of my nurturing touch. I had been to so many exotic places in this world, but never had I discovered a flower as rare and precious and strange and wonderful as Esme's.

Her white thighs trembled as they fell apart, brushing my hipbones like velvet on stone. I watched her intently as I entered her. Hair thrown back and eyes black with passion, she was exquisite. So perfect and responsive and beautiful that I couldn't help but push deeper into her. I steeped inside of her, her venom coating me like warm honey, and I moved slowly within her, feeling us as one, pulsing and reaching.

I felt my face burning as my hips began their impulsive dance, savoring the delectable friction between our flesh.

"Harder, Carlisle," Esme uttered in a silky growl. Without my consent, my hips kneaded more violently against hers. And I loved her just like that, for the entire night, riding on a pulsing beat prompted by desire.

We poured ourselves into one another until we had been filled to our limits, and we laid ourselves to rest under a blanket of peace.

The next time I opened my eyes, a beautiful vision greeted me. The pale golden light of morning seeped through the open window and soaked into the white blankets covering our bed. To me, the most fascinating part of lovemaking was studying the effects it had left in its wake. So many times I let my hands wander down my own body, sensing the ways my muscles grew lax and my skin simmered with contentment. My eyes found notable markings where her teeth had nipped me, and fading blots of pink where her lipstick had stained all the palest parts of my anatomy. I had to smile smugly when I noticed how the palest parts of me were now the pinkest.

Beside me, Esme's body stretched out like a slender lioness, her naked skin glowing in the new sun. I touched her as if it were my first time touching her, with fingers that ached to discover and experience. She was such a divine possession, one which I could never honor completely, even with all the years of my life to service her.

When she finally turned her head to look at me, her eyes were full of love, and the curve of her mouth still echoed the pleasures we'd shared the night before. Her fingers fluttered down my bare chest as she teased me about having ruined my speaking skills for good.

I assured her that my ability to speak was of no importance to me.

It had already earned me my prize.

* * *

**A/N: So this is the result of my long absence. This, and the brand new house my fiancé and I are currently residing in. I still only own like two pieces furniture and we have a thousand things to repair, but I'm trying to keep writing in the midst of it all!**

**Thanks as always to my patient readers!**

**-Mackenzie**


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